Literary and historical miscellanies

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t/
LITERARY AND HISTORICAL

MISCELLANIES.

BY

GEOKGE BANCROFT,

I NEW YORK:

HARPER & BROTHERS,

I

FRANKLIN SQUABB.

M.X)COGLV.

M>»

1-M

Eotercd according to Act of CongrcflB, in the year 185S,

Br OEOBOE BANOBOFT,

la the ClerVs Office of the District Court of the United Statea for the Southern

District of New York.

CONTENTS.

PAOl

ESSAYS :

I. THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPERAMENTS, 1824, - - 1

II. ENNUI, 1830, ----- 44

m. THE RULING PASSION IN DEATH, 1833, - - - 75

STUDIES IN GERMAN LITERATURE, 1824 AND FOL-
LOWING YEARS :

I. GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS, ------ 103

II. THE REVIVAL OF GERMAN LITERATURE, - - 124

m. MEN OF SCIENCE AND LEARNING, - - - - 152

IV. THE AGE OF SCHILLER AND GOETHE, - - - 167

V. TRANSLATIONS, 1818—1824, 206

STUDIES IN HISTORY :

I. ECONOMY OF ATHENS, 1831, 247

II. DECLINE OF THE ROMAN PEOPLE, 1884, - - - 280

III. RUSSIA, 1829, 318

IV. THE WARS OF RUSSIA AND TURKEY, 1829, - - 334

IV CONTENTS.

PAOB

OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES:

I. A WORD ON CALVIN THE BEFOBMER, OCT. 1884. 405
IL THE OFFICE OF THE PEOPLE IN ART, GOVERN-
MENT AND RELIGION, 1835, 408

III. IN MEMORY OF WM. ELLERY CHANNING, 1842, - 436

IV. ORATION COMMEMORATIVE OF ANDREW JACK-

SON, 1846, 444

V. THE NECESSITY, THE REALITY, AND THE PRO-
MISE OF THE PROGRESS OF THE HUMAN
RACE, 1864. - 481

THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPERAMENTS.

THE FIVE SOUBCES OF DIFFERENCE BETWEEN MEN.

The connexion between the mind and the body can
never be explained. As yet, the first principles on
which it depends, have not been discovered. Nature,
in her mysterious operations, eludes the sagacity of the
most careful obs^^ers. Her venerable form is con-
cealed by a veil, which no mortal has been permitted to
ndse. The first cause is " that which hath been, which
is, and which shall be, and which no man has compre-
hended." But we can notice the relation between one
set of appearances and another, and may hope to be
benefited by practical inductions fi*om our observations.
By them we are led to regard the body, not merely as
the temporary abode of the soul, but also as the instru-
ment by which knowledge is acquired and piu^oses
executed. No idea of the external world fiinds its way
to the mind but through the senses ; while the action
of the internal organs excites the passions, modifies the
operations of thought, and imparts peculiarities to the
moral nature.
1

2 THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPERAMENTS.

The union and reciprocal influence of the mind
and body are established before the period for observa-
tion has arrived. If the reasonings of physiologists are
just, the infant at its birth is aheady possessed of a con-
sciousness of its being. It has its passions, its desires,
its propensities ; and not only its physical organization
is decided, but also the complexion of its character.
There remains room for education to accomplish her
high designs in developing its powers, in confirm-
ing its advantages, in counteracting its faults, in sup-
plying its deficiencies, in tempering its elements. But
there are certain limits, within which this influence of
art is restrained. The features of the mind, as of the
face, are fixed beyond the possibihty of change. Free
opportunity is left for the culture of morals ; but it is
also decided, by what vices the child, on ripening to
manhood, will be most liable to be assailed, and in
what virtues he is constitutionally fitted to excel.

The native peculiarities of individuals may be illus-
trated by enumerating those which experience has
shown to exist. Sex renders a diversity of moral char-
acter inevitable. But not to dwell on this universal
division, there may clearly be observed in every one at
least five sources of difference, residing in his original
organization.

The human family, which now occupies the earth,
is composed of several races. Some illustrious physi-
ologists have, it is true, contended that strictly speaking

I

THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPERAMENTS. 3

there is but one ; and that men, descended from com-
mon parents, have been variously changed by the con-
tinued influence of cUmate and regimen. But while
speculative science leads to the belief in a conmion
origin, and establishes beyond a doubt the unity of our
kind, the difference at present actually exists ; and the
child inherits the physical and moral characteristics of
the race to which it belongs. The Englishman and
the Hindoo, though natives of the same city, are from
birth unlike in mind and in feature.

The same race has been variously modified in
different ages of the world. The Greek of the Byzan-
tine Empire was not as the Greek of the Athenian
democracy. The Roman of to-day is not the Roman
of the Commonwealth. A German baron of the pres-
ent time is all unlike the feudal robber of the middle
ages. Each generation bears marks by which it may
be distinguished from any former one. These differ-
ences, though they are the result of the state of society
in its influence on the individuals who compose it, are
nevertheless in some measure hereditary ; so that the
new-bom child is affected by the age in which its ex-
istence conunences. This is confirmed by analogies,
drawn from the whole animal creation.

Nations, also, have their characteristics, which are
transmitted from one generation to another. The infant,
therefore, receives with its original frame the peculiarities
of its nation. To what degree this modification of char-

4 THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPERAMENTS.

acter extends, it is difficult to determine. It probably
reaches further than we may, at first thought, be ready
to beheve, and not only inclines the mind to certain
habits and particular sentiments, to such virtues as
valor and prudence, but also to such vices as rapacity
and cruelty, to cunning, to eflfeminacy, to superstition,
to servile obedience. It gives an aptitude for acqui-
escing in certain forms of society and government, and
a facility for the acquisition and use of a particular lan-
guage. The Frenchman is bom with a natural predis-
position to cheerfulness ; the American Indian with an
innate passion for the chase ; the Arab of the desert
with a propensity to plunder. Who will hesitate to
ascribe the bravery of the Cossacks to a peculiarity
common to their nation, and continued by descent?
Who will doubt, that there are tribes of men naturally
imwarlike ? Is it not to be beUeved, that the physical
organization of many a Tartar tribe inclines them to a
wandering life ? Could any possible education make
of the next generation of the serfs in Russia good
citizens of a free, popular government ? Animals often
show peculiar skill in matters, to which not they, but
their parents, have been trained. The books of the
naturalists furnish well-attested examples of qualities
thus inherited. In like manner we may beUeve, that
the ancient adorers of leeks and onions, or the present
worshippers of the Grand Lama, came into the world
predisposed to superstition ; that the Turk is naturally

THE DOCTRINE OP TEMPEBAMENTS. 0

given to stem composure and faith in the power of
destiny ; that the Siamese commoner does, as it were,
of himself cringe and fall on his knees before the
absurd nobiUty of his comitry; and that the de-
scendant of the Pilgrims, whether on the banks of
the Detroit, the Iowa, or the Oregon, has the true
instinct for Uberty. As to speech, the infant in the val-
ley of the Euphrates inherits, it may not be doubted,
an aptness to learn the diffiise forms of its Oriental
language ; and on the borders of the Seine to prefer
the dialect of Paris to the deeper accents of the
Grermans. Though a man may have acquired a foreign
language in his infancy, his thoughts were not des-
tined by nature to flow in it ; and perfect success in
the use of words is obtained only in the mother
tongue.

The differences in national character are obvious,
when we hold up in contrast the manners and history
of nations. It is still easier to observe the traits which
mark famihes. The father's lineaments and consti-
tution, the mother's temper, re-appear in their off-
spring. The child bears the features of its parents,
and how often is the analogous resemblance of mind and
tastes perceptible.

And lastly, the life of every person has, from its
commencement, its own peculiarities. Prom the first
dawn of consciousness it is distinguished from that of
every other intelligent being; and it contains within

6 THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPEEAMENTS.

itself, the principles which are to decide on character,
condition, and happiness.

It appears then, from its race, its age, its nation, its
j family, and its own organization, the infant receives
with its existence pecuhar quaUties. K it be asked,
in what these original di£Perences consist, we might
safely invite the reader to consider for himself each
class, under which we have arranged them, and test onr
statement by its appUcation to individual cases. This
would be attended with no difficulty as far as regards
the three first sources of difference. Where men are
to be judged of by comparing them in masses, whether
of races or of peoples, and centuries of national existence
are to be grouped together for the convenience of
observing, it may be easy to seize on characteristics
which stand out in bold relief. But it is in the daily
walks of life, that a proper discrimination becomes both
difficult and invaluable. It is in comparing family with
family, and man with man, that an almost endless variety
seems to baffle every effort at classification.

But the subject has been happily reduced to order.
It is found j^ossible to analyze the ingredients, which
compose the physical, and influence the moral nature ;
and thus to arrive at comparatively a small number
of elements, which, by their various combinations,
produce the infinite diversity existing between indi-
viduals. The ancients already established the simple
classification of men according to their oi^anization,

THE DOCTRINE OP TEMPERAMENTS. 7

and with the happy sagacity, for which they are justly
considered eminent, invented the doctrine of temper-
aments ; a doctrine, m itself neither unimportant nor
uninteresting ; of high moment to the physician in the
treatment of disease, and not without its advantages to
any one m the care of his health ; a doctrine which
holds a conspicuous place in physiological science ; and
forms a fit object of Uberal curiosity, as belonging in
general to the history and knowledge of man.

It is our purpose to expound this intricate sub-
ject. Every one who reads, may try the correctness
of our views, by comparisons drawn from his own
experience. Yet the observer will bear in mind,
that the theory has to exhibit each temperament in
its purity, unmixed and unmitigated; life generally
furnishes only examples, in which one or the other is
stronglv predominant. It is our duty, in order to draw
the lines of separation between opposite classes, to pre-
sent the peculiar qualities in a strong and distinct hght.
Nature blends them in harmonious combinations.

the sanguineous temperament.

The temperament, which in its external appearance,
claims the highest degree of physical beauty, is the san-
guineous. Its forms are moulded by nature to perfect
sjnoometry, and invested with a complexion of the
clearest lustre. The hands of the artist have embodied

8 THE DOCTRINE OP TEMPERAMENTS.

its outlines in the majestically graceful Apollo of the
Vatican. Its delicate shape is " the dream of love."
A mild and clear eye promptly reveals the emotions of
the heart ; the veins swell with copious and healthful
streams ; and the cheek is quick to mantle with the
crimson current. The breath of life is inhaled freely ;
the chest is high and expanded like that of " a young
Mohawk warrior ; " the pulse is active but gentle ; the
hair Kght ; the skin soft and moist ; the face unclouded ;
and, in short, the whole organization is characterized by
the vigor and facility of its functions.

The moral character of those who belong to this
temperament is equally pleasing. They are amiable
companions, every where welcome, and requiting the
kindness shown them by gentleness of temper and
elegance of manners. They are distinguished for play-*
fulness of fancy and ready vnt. Their minds are rapid
in their conceptions, and pass readily from one subject
to another, so that they can change at once from gaiety
to tears, or from gravity to mirth. Of a happy mem-
ory, a careless and unsuspecting mien, a contented
humor, a fi'ank disposition, they form no schemes of
deep hypocrisy or remote ambition. They are naturally
affectionate, yet fickle in their friendships ; prompt to
act, yet uncertain of purpose. They excel in labors
which demand a most earnest but short application.
They conquer at a blow, or abandon the game. They
gain their point by a coup de main, never by a tedious

THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPERAMENTS. 9

siege. They are easily excited, but easily calmed ; they
take fire at a word, but are as ready to forgive. They
dislike profound meditation, but excel in prompt inge-
nuity ; they succeed in light exercises of fancy, in hap-
pily contrasting incongraous objects, and inventing sin-
gular but just comparisons. They are given to display,
and passionately fond of being admired. Inconstant
by nature, they are fall of sympathy, and are eminently
capable of transferring themselves in imagination into
other scenes and conditions. Hence they sometimes
are successful in the lighter branches of letters; but
they are too little persevering to excel. A continuance
of intellectual labor is odious to them ; and in no case
have they been known to unite the deep sentiments of
philosophy to eloquent language. They are the gayest
members of society, and yet the first to feel for others.
With a thousand faults, their kindness of heart makes
them always favorites. In their manners, they unite a
happy audacity with winning good nature ; their con-
versation is gay, varied, and sparkling ; never profound,
but never dull ; sometimes trivial, but often brilliant.
Love is their ruling passion ; but it is a frohc love, to
which there are as many cynosures as stars. It is Ri-
naldo in the chains, which he will soon break to submit
to new ones. Occasionally they join in. the contest for
glory. In council they never have the ascendant ; but
of all executive officers they are the best. They often
are thrown by some happy chance to be at the head of

10 THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPERAMENTS.

aflFairs ; but they never retam power very long. They
are sometimes even delighted with camps; but the
field of arms is for them only an aflFair for a holiday ;
they go to battle as merrily as to a dance, and are soon
weary of the one and the other. Life is to them a
merry tale ; if they are ever sad, it is but fix)m com-
passion or the love of change ; and they breathe out
their sighs chiefly in sonnets. Thus they seem made
for sunshine and prosperity. Nature has given them
the love of enjoyment, and blessed them with the gift
of cheerfulness. In short, this temperament is to the
rest, what youth is to the other periods of life ; what
spring is to the succeeding seasons ; the time of fresh-
ness and flowers, of elastic hope and unsated desire.

For examples of this temperament, go to the abodes
of the contented, the houses of the prosperous. Ask
for the gayest among the gay in the scenes of pleasure ;
search for those who have stilled the voice of ambition
by the gentle influence of contented affection. In the
mythology of the ancients, among whom generally
character stood forth in bolder relief, numerous illus-
trations may be found. We may mention Paris, who,
as the poet says, went to battle like the war-horse
prancing to the river's side, and who valued the safety
of his country less than the gratification of his love ; or
Leander, whose passion the waters of the Hellespont
could not quench ; or the too fascinating Endymion,
who drew Diana herself from her high career. In his-

THE DOCTRINE OP TEMPERAMENTS. 11

tory, we have the dangerous Alcibiades, who surpassed
all other Athenians in talent^ the Spartans in self-
denial^ the Thracians in abandoned luxury ; Mark An-
tony, who, for a time, was the first man in Rome, but
gave up the world for Cleopatra ; Nero, the capricious
tyrant, whose tomb was yet scattered with flowers ;
the English Leicester, for whom two queens contend-
ed ; the gallant Hotspur of the British drama ; the
French duke de Richelieu ; the good king Henry ; the
bold and amiable Francis ; or to take quite a recent
example, the brave and gallant, but passionate and
wavering Murat, now, in time of truce, displaying his
splendid dresses and lus skill in horsemanship be-
fore the admiring Cossacks, and anon in the season
of strife, charging the enemy's cavahy with fearless
impetuosity. But we have the most striking illustra-
tion of the sanguineous temperament, when uncon-
trolled by moral principle, in the life and character o^
Demetrius, the famed besieger of cities. The son of
Antigonus was tall, and of beautiful symmetry. Grace
and majesty were imited in his countenance ; so that
he inspired at once both affection and awe. In his
hours of leisure, he was an agreeable profligate ; in Ins
moments of action, no man equalled him in dihgence
and despatch. Like Bacchus, he was terrible in war,
but in peace a voluptuary. At one time he hazards
honor and liberty for the indulgence of his love ; and
at another, his presence of mind and his daring make

12 THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPEEAMENT8.

him victorious in the bloodiest naval battle of which
any record exists. Though sometimes capriciously
crael, he was naturally humane. By turns a king
and a pensioner, a hero and a profligate, a tyrant and
a Uberator, he conquered Ptolemy, besieged Thebes,
gave freedom to Athens, was acknowledged to be the
most active warrior of his age, and yet died in cap-
tivity, of indolence and gluttony.

Plutarch's life of Demetrius Poliorcetes might in-
deed be called the adventures of a sanguineous man,
but of one morally abandoned. Where men of this
temperament are distinguished for blamelessness and
purity, they comprise within themselves all that is
lovely and amiable in human nature. They are the
fondest husbands and the kindest fathers. They Uve
in an atmosphere of happiness. The fables of Arcadia
seem surpassed by reaUties. It is especially in early
life that their virtues have the most pleasing fragrance ;
" severe in youthful beauty," they are like the IsraeUtes,
who would not eat of the Eastern king's meat, and yet
had countenances fairer than all. These are they, of
whom the poets praise the destiny which takes them
early from the world. These are the favorites of
heaven, who, if they hve to grow old, at their death
" fill up one monument with goodness itself."

With regard to the preservation of health, we sum
up every precept for the sanguineous man in J;his one ;
avoid excess. He should take much active, but not

THE DOCTRINE OF TEICFBBAMEKTB. 18

violent exercise ; and must be careful to diminish the
tendency to plethora. He may dance, may fence, may
indulge in field-sports, or use any of the exercises of a
well instituted gymnasium ; but all moderately. Na-
ture has made him prone to indulgence, but has made
indulgence doubly dangerous for his constitution and
his morals. We repeat it : let him avoid excess, and
Ins life will pass away m uninterrupted cheerfulness, in
deeds of courtesy and benevolence, in the habitual
exercise of the gentle and the generous virtues.

THE ATHLETIC TEMPERAMENT.

The athletic temperament possesses in some re-
spects the external appearance of the sanguineous ; but
it rises to a colossal stature, and is possessed of extra-
ordinary strength. It imphes an excess of muscular
force over the sensitive. In superior physical powers, it
loses all playfulness of mind. The athletic man has
great vigor of frame, but is of an inactive spirit. He
never attains to elevated purposes, or a fixed character ;
he has no acuteness or insight into human motives, no
gift of eloquence or poetry. He can be made an in-
strument in the hands of others, but never of himself
conceives vast enterprises. He is good-humored, and by
coaxing and flattery may be persuaded to do or suffer
almost any thing; but if his passions are excited,
he is capable of becoming ferocious, and even brutal.

14 THE DOCTKINE OF TEMPERAMENTS.

The sanguineous man often becomes athletic by a
course of exercise, fitted to give the greatest develop-
ment to the animal nature.

The mythology of the ancients furnishes examples
of this class, in the whole race of the Titans, who
thought in their folly that they could scale heaven,
because their mighty arms could rend mountains from
their bases. But the best instance among the demi-
gods is Hercules. The brawny hero was perpetually
cozened by Eurystheus, was compelled to execute the
most frightful labors, turned rivers from their courses,
withdrew the dead from the world of shades, and
struck terror into the powers of Orcus, and yet was
the slave of his appetites, and the dupe of his mistress. *
In all this he shows the excess of force and its con-
comitant mental imbeciUty.

If we turn to real life for illustrations, it must be
remembered, that this temperament rarely fills the
high offices of power and trust. The historic muse
names of it no one among the benefactors of mankind.
Had we the annals of the amphitheatres of old, we
could know what giant son of the human race had
worn the highest honors for prodigies of strength.
In the unsettled period of the Roman empire, there
are not wanting instances of men, who gained the
diadem by being the strongest of those that joined
in the scramble, or won the hearts of the barbarian
legions, by excelling in the barbarian virtue of mere

THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPERAMENTS. 15

physical force. There was too, quite recently, a Saxon
elector, or rather a Polish king, who could break a
horse shoe though he could not govern a kingdom,
and was more successful in his debaucheries, than
in acquiring the respect of men. He pretended to
be an amateur of the fine arts, when he really under-
stood nothing but the chase. He left the government
of Saxony to his minister and yet beUeved he did
every thing himself ; he found the Poles troublesome
to manage and therefore abandoned them to anarchy ;
the capital of his hereditary dominions was menaced by
the Prussians; he fled taking with him his pictures
and his porcelain, but leaving to the conqueror the
archives of the state. Every body knows the story
of his father, August Frederic, the second of the
name. He sold his fine regiment of drc^oons to his
most dangerous neighbor for twelve porcelain vases.
Once his mortal enemy Charles the Twelfth of Sweden,
in the strangest freak, came unexpectedly and unattend-
ed to breakfast with him in Dresden ; some hours after
the king had rejoined his army, Augustus held a coun-
cil to consider whether he ought not to have detamed
his royal guest as a prisoner.

In republics, this athletic temperament can have no
chance to gain power ; it is only by divine right, or the
favor of a female ruler, that it can hope to control the
fortunes of states. The study of history leads us to cry
out against the injustice of history ; it is a mere accident.

16 THE DOCTEINE OF TEMPERAMENTS.

whether genuine worth finds a place there. Philip, the
landgrave of Hesse, was a great friend of Protestant-
ism. He also begged of Luther leave to have two wives
at once. This was a strange request from a Christian
prince to a reformer of religion ; but Luth6r decided
the request to be a reasonable one. Philip was always
for prompt measures ; he struck a bold blow, or none.
Finding war too troublesome, he left the business to
others, and gave himself up to slothful indulgence.
If his end seems inconsistent with his earher years, the
riddle is solved by a word ; he was of the athletic tem-
perament. Indeed the whole family of Hessian princes
has had a tendency to that class. Frederic, the second
of the line, was fond of splendor ; and not famous for
nice feeling. He sold his soldiers at a high rate.
England paid him more than twenty-one millions of
rix dollars for twelve thousand of them, for eight
years. Why is it worse for an African prince to dis-
pose of the captives whom he takes in war, to cultivate
sugar and cotton in America, than for a Hessian
prince to sell his own subjects, of whom he has
the divine right to be the parent and the sovereign,
to fight the battles of England, and be shot at for less
than sixpence a day P The son of the Landgrave just
mentioned, was one of the richest and meanest misers
in Europe, the most tyrannical petty despot of his time.
Inventing a new right of primogeniture, he promulga-
ted a law respecting those who were permitted to be

THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPERAMENTS. 17

educated, and allowed the clergy generally, and some
public functionaries of a certain rank, to educate only
their oldest son. We connect with a prince, at least
some ideas of external splendor, and liberality of dis-
position. But what shall we think of this niggardly au-
tocrat, who fumbled in the pockets of the poor man in
quest of his last penny, and raked the barren sands of
an exhausted soil for a few more grains of gold?

The most remarkable of all historical personages of
the athletic temperament, was Potemkin, for several
years the unlimited favorite of Catharine. For a while
men thought him possessed of a colossal genius ; but
he had nothing colossal except his body. He had no
character, and soon made it evident. What mighty
events spring from petty causes ! An inferior officer
saw the empress display herself in uniform before the
guards; her sword was without tassels; he tore his
own from the hilt, to make her an offering of them ;
she accepted the tribute, and became enamored of
his person; and he made himself her master. The
chancellor of the empire outwitted him; so that the
armed neutrality was the result of a court intrigue.
His mind was of the coarsest order. "How many
prostitutes are there in Petersburgh ? " said she to him
one day. " Forty thousand," repUed he, " without the
court." He was excessively grasping and excessively
prodigal. He was worth thirty-five millions of our
dollars, and yet could not be induced to pay a trades-
2

18 THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPEBAMENTS.

man's bill. Catliarine lavished on him immense smns ;
he would further forge checks in her name on the pub-
lic treasury, and accept bribes from foreign powers.
The first division of Poland was to him but " child's
play." When the Tartars of the Crimea hesitated to
take the oath of allegiance to Catharine, he ordered
thirty thousand of them to be slaughtered in a mass,
men, women and children. The grand riband of the
order of St. George is given in Russia, only to a com-
mander-in-chief, after a victory. To gain this, he
quarrelled with the Porte in 1787, and in the next
year, took Otchakow by storm, in spite of sickness and
scarcity. He surpassed all men of his time in prodi-
gality, in meanness, in sensual indulgence, and capri-
cious vanity. He died at last, in consequence of his
excesses, under a tree by the road-side; and when
Paul came to the crown, the body of Potemkin was
thrown into a ditch.

Such is the athletic temperament. Its excess of
health and strength is by no means desirable. When
the constitution once begins to fail, it is broken up
suddenly and rapidly. And there is really less of the
true vital principle in this temperament, than in any
other. Those who belong to it never acquire eminent
intellectual distinction; and are ignorant of refined
sensations. No prayers, no sacrifices, no exertions,
not even nightly vigils, can open for them the sanctu-
ary of the muse. Heaven has conferred on them a

THE DOCTRINE Of TEMPERAMENTS. 19

majestic frame, 'but doomed them to perpetual medioc-
rity. The athletic man can receive few rules for the
regulation of his health. Indeed, Hippocrates pro-
nounces his usual condition to be a state of malady.
We can only exhort him to be temperate, and to use
his strength with discretion. His life will probably not
extend to old age, and will be exposed to many in-
firmities.

In history, this temperament has gained distinction
in the troublesome times, when brutal force and fierce
indiflference were in the ascendant. In poetry, it is
illustrated by the Ajax of Homer, and we have an accu-
rate description of it in Chaucer.

"The Miller was a stout carl for the nones,
Ful bigge he was of braun, and eke of bones ;
That proved wel, for over all ther he came.
At wrastling he wold bere away the ram.
He was short shuldered, brode, a thikke gnarre,
Ther n'as no dore, that he n'olde heve of barre.
Or breke it at a renning with his hede."

THE BILIOUS TEMPERAMENT.

We turn to the consideration of a class of men, to
whom the destinies of the world are generally commit-
ted; who rule in the cabinet and on the exchange;
who control pubUc business, and guide the deUber-
ations of senates, and who, whether in exalted or pri-
vate stations, unite in the highest degree instant saga-

20 THE DOCTEINE OF TEMPERAMENTS.

city with persevering energy. They possess, like the
sanguineous, quickness of perception and rapidity of
thought ; but they at the same time have the power of
confining their attention to a single object. They have
good practical judgment ; they see things as they are,
and are never deceived by contemplating measures in a
false light ; they have a clear eye to pierce the secrets
of the human heart, to read the character and under-
stand the motives of others. They are patient and in-
flexible in their purposes ; and however remote may be
the aim of their desires, they labor with unwearied toil
even for a distant and apparently uncertain success.
They are prone to anger, and yet can moderate or
conceal their indignation. Their strongest passion is
ambition; all other emotions yield to it; even love
vainly struggles against it ; and if they sometimes give
way to beauty, they in their pleasures resemble the
Scythians of old, who at their feasts used to strike the
cords of their bows, to remind themselves of danger.
The men- of whom we are speaking are urged by con-
stant restlessness to constant action. An habitual sen-
timent of disquietude allows them no peace but in the
tumult of business ; the hours of crowded life are the
only ones they value; the narrow road of emulation
the only one in which they travel.

These moral characteristics are observed to be con-
nected with a form more remarkable for firmness than
for grace. The complexion is generally not light ; and

THE DOCTEINE OF TEMPERAMENTS. 21

not unfrequentiy of a sallow hue ; the hair is dark ; the
skin dry ; the flesh not abundant, but firm ; the mus-
cular force great in proportion to the volume of the
muscles ; the eye vivid and sparkling. The appetite is
voracious rather than deUcate; the digestion rapid.
Of the internal organs, the Kver is proportionably the
largest and the most active ; and its copious secretions
give a name to the class.

Such is the nature of those who belong to the
biUous temperament. They are to be employed,
wherever hardiness of resolution, prompt decision,
and permanence of enterprise are required. They
unite in themselves in an eminent degree the manly
virtues, which lead to results in action. At their birth
all the gods came to offer gifts ; the graces alone re-
mained away. They stand high in the calendar of courts,
and know how to court the favor of the citizens of re-
pubhcs; but Cupid, indignant at their independence
of him, degrades them in his calendar. They do not
reign in the world of fashion, and the novel-writer
could make an Oxenstiem or a Sully an imposing
picture, but not the hero of a sentimental tale.

Will you learn fix)m Uving examples, what is the
nature of the bilious temperament? Walk to the
exchange, and ask who best understands the daring
business of insurance ? Discover by whom the banks
are managed which give the surest and largest divi-
dends? Go to our new settlements in the west,

22 THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPERAMENTS.

and mark the men who are early and late riding
through the majestic forests of virgin nature, where
the progress is impeded, it is true, by no under-
wood, but where every hardship must be endured,
streams forded, nights be spent under the open sky,
hunger be defied, and a thousand dangers be braved
by the keen speculator, who will take nothing on trust.
Or watch the arena of public strife, and see who it is,
that most skilfully, and yet most secretly, touches the
springs of national action, and controls the distribution
of praise and emoluments in the very court of honor ?

Or if you will not trust yourself with scrutinizing
the motives of the living, consult the Muse of History,
and with her trumpet tongue, she will tell you of those
who are the elect of her heart, those who fill the uni-
verse with their fame, and have swayed their times by
their prowess and their mental power ; from the mighty
conquerors of earUest antiquity, whose names fioat to
us among the wrecks of unknown empires, to the last
wonderful man, who, in our own times, dealt with
states as with playthings, and, by the force of his des-
potic will, shook the civilized world to its centre.

Ancient history furnishes perhaps no more exact
illustration of this temperament, than in the charac-
ter of Themistocles. In his boyhood he shunned
boyish sports; but would compose declamations and
harangues. He says of himself, that he had learnt
neither to tune the harp nor handle the lyre, but that

THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPERAMENTS. 23

he knew how to make a small and inglorious city both
powerful and illustrious. He could not sleep for the
trophies of Miltiades. When his superior in the com-
mand raised a staff to repel disagreeable advice by a
blow, he coolly said, " Strike — but hear me," rendering
patience sublime by his patriotism. Having been a
poor and disinherited child, he made his way to the
highest honors in Athens, and for a season controlled
the civilized world. " He was the first of men," says
Thucydides, "for practical judgment." Of Romans
we might name as of the bilious temperament, the
elder Brutus, the glorious hypocrite, who hid the power
of his genius till he could exert it for liberty. The
greatest foreigner in the days of the RepubUc on the
Roman soil was Hannibal, and he, not less than Julius
Csesar, was of the bilious class.

But were we to select an example among those,
who at any time have been masters of the Seven Hills,
we should name the wonderful Montalto, Pope Sextus
V. In early life he exerted astonishing industry and
talent, made himself the favorite preacher in the cities
of Italy, and afterwards won the hearts of the Spaniards,
till he was at last made Cardinal. Then of a sudden
his character seemed changed ; and for almost twenty
years he played the part of a deceiver, with unequalled
skill. He Uved at a retired house, kept few servants,
was Uberal in his expenses for charities, but parsimo-
nious towards himself; contradicted no one ; submitted

24 THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPERAMENTS.

even to insults with perfect good humor ; and, in short,
acquired the reputation of being the most meek, the
most humble, and the most easily guided among the
cardinals. Of the forty-two cardinals who entered the
conclave, Montalto seemed nearest to another world.
A crutch supported the declining strength of his old
age • and a distressing cough indicated that life was fast
consuming away. Six parties divided the assembly ;
and fourteen cardinals deemed themselves worthy of
the tiara. On balloting, Albano, the most powerfully
supported, had but thirteen votes. Let us take this
good natured, dying old man, thought they ; he will be
easily managed; and four parties of the six united for
Montalto. The ballot was ended ; " Gods ! I am Pope
of Rome," exclaimed the hale old man. Casting from
him the cloaks in which he was muffled, he threw his
crutch across the room, and bending back, spit to
the ceiling of the high chamber of the Vatican in
which he was, to show the vigor of his limgs. Never
did a wiser man hold the keys of St. Peter. He pun-
ished vice even in the high places, with inexorable sever-
ity ; he established the library of the Vatican ; placed the
magnificent obelisk in front of St. Peters ; caused the
matchless cupola to be built ; conducted water to the
Quirinal Hill; erected a vast, hospital for the poor
made the splendid street, called from his name Felice
reformed the finances of the states of the Church
and, while he exercised great infiuence on the affairs of

THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPERAMENTS. 25

Christendom, he himself kept at peace. Since his
time, the CathoUc Church has not had at its head
a man of superior genius.

In the care of his health the bilious man has no
excess of humors that require to be dissipated by vio-
lent exercise. He may use ahnost any kind of motion
in a moderated degree. In simuner he must avoid fa-
tiguing labors during the heat of the day. Autumn is
the best season for him ; especially when the air is at
once cool and moist. Then in the midst of nature's
decline he forms projects for his own advancement;
nor does he always pause, though his path to success
may lead through the ruin of others.

THE PHLEGMATIC TEMPERAMENT.

There are men, not absolutely dull, yet not of Uvely
sensibiUty ; their thoughts are exact, but neither very
gay, nor veiy profoimd ; their ideas come tardily, but
with precision ; they are quiet ; not disposed to anger ;
and in general, pursue a middle course. They are
fond of repose, and, if left to themselves, would sleep
away a large part of their lives. These men are of a
light and often deUcate complexion; the countenance
is without expression ; the eye tranquil ; the hair of no
decided color ; the muscles of great volume, but feeble ;
the pulse mild, and disappearing under a firm pressure.
The fibres are soft ; the humors of the body abound.

26 THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPERAMENTS.

Such are the characteristics, moral and physical, of the
phlegmatic, or, as it is often called, the lymphatic tem-
perament.

The phlegmatic man is tranquil in all his affections ;
he is never troubled with desperate love. As he pos-
sesses neither enterprise nor sudden resolution, he
avoids undertakings wherein those qualities would be
necessary. He cultivates, or rather seems naturally to
possess, the qualities of prudence and discretion. His
conduct is free from excesses ; and his vices and virtues
are stamped with mediocrity. He easily acquires es-
teem, and never excites admiration. He is not tor-
mented by ambition, or a thirst for praise ; neither is
he exposed to the temptations which most frequently
and most dangerously beset the weaknesses of others.
But let him not be proud of this imagined superiority.
He' purchases his distinction by foregoing the highest
pleasures of the imagination and the most delicate
enjoyments of existence. Unfit for acting in sudden
emergencies, he succeeds perfectly well in labors which
chiefly require patience, where gradual advancement is
the result of moderate but continued efforts. Hence
he is sure to be jostled from the road to influence in
times of high excitement ; and never possesses power
but in seasons of profound tranquillity. It is with
great surprise that we find a late popular writer quote
the illustrious Fox, as an illustration of the phleg-
matic temperament. Fox was given to pleasure as well

THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPERAMENTS. 27

as to business ; he had taste, philanthropy, warm feel-
ings, impetuous daring, many of the most honorable
qualities of the sanguineous man. The British minis-
ters of greatest note, from Lord Burleigh to Canning,
were generally of the bihous temperament. But if we
must give a great name as an example of this class,
we should take the philosopher and historian Hume.
The Dutch are nationally of this organization. It
would not seem to suit the character of a poet ; but
Thomson was a phlegmatic man, " more fat than bard
beseems," though youthful admirers may find it diffi-
cult to reconcile this opinion with their idea of the poet
of the Seasons. Take these lines as proof of his nature :
" But first the fuel'd chimney blazes wide ;
The tankards foam ; and the strong table groans
Beneath the smoking sirloin, stretched inunense
From side to side, in which, with desperate knife.
They deep incision make.*'
And when he compares the steam of hot punch to the
breath of May as it comes over violets, and praises the
ale which is

" not afraid,
E*en with the vineyard's best produce to vie,"

the verses, on the whole, are as barbarous in their
measure as they are phlegmatic in their conception.

No exercise is too violent for the man of this tem-
perament. His sleeping energies must be awakened ;
his imagination roused from its lethargy by powerful

28 THE DOCTEINE OF TEMPERAMENTS.

excitement. In summer, to guard against his natural
lassitude, let him rise in time to help Hyperion to his
horse ; and quicken his system by a cold bath ; then,
careless of the heat, he may plunge into the forest and
pursue the chase, till real fatigue gives him a claim to
repose. In winter he may run at full speed till his
heavy frame pants for breath; or wrestle violently
nvith an equal antagonist till his chill blood flows
warmly to his cheek. Nor need he shun the social
circle and the festive dance. The society of the gay
will not undermine his gravity, and the noise of mirth
and the sight of beauty wifl never be too stimulating
for his sluggish passions.

THE MELANCHOLIC TEMPERAMENT.

Observe the pensive man, who stands musing apart
from the rest, and whom we should think bilious but
for the compression of his chest. His countenance is
paUid or sallow; and his features are expressive of
melancholy. He is lean, yet of great muscular vigor ;
his eyes are clear and brilliant, yet of a sombre expres-
sion. His hair is dark, and does not readily curl. He
is rather tall, and not ill-formed, yet slender ; his breast
is narrow, and confines the play of his lungs; he
stoops as he sits or walks. His internal organization is
marked by energy and life ; but the action of the sys-
tem meets with obstructions. His nerves are extremely

THE DOCTRINE OP TEMPERAMENTS. 29

sensitive ; yet generous warmth is wanting to mollify
and expand their extremities. His blood circulates
with languor, and if he is long exposed to the cold in a
state of inactivity, it is soon chilled. His stomach is
apt to become indolent ; he is Uable to the anguish of
difficult digestion. Such are the physical peculiarities
of the melancholic temperament.

The man of this class unites an habitual distrust of
himself and weak indecision in common aflGEurs, with
obstinate persistence in matters on which he is decided,
and undaunted perseverance in pursuing one object.
When he has no strong motive to fix him, his wavering
exposes him to the reproach of pusillanimity ; and he
might find it difficult to repel the charge, were it not
that it is impossible to make him swerve fix)m a purpose
once adopted. Beauty has an inconceivable and mys-
terious power over him. He deserts the society of the
wise and learned, the disputes of poUticians and the dis-
cussions of men of business, for the unquiet enjoyment
which he finds in its vicinity. Yet while he yields to
the temporary influence and dominion of any one who
is lovely, he is slow to form an attachment ; and if his
affections are once engaged, his love bears the seal of
eternity. In his intercourse with men, he avoids all
society which does not suit his habits of mind ; but he
is sincere in his Mendships, and, we must also add,
slow to forgive an injury. The recollection of a wrong
remains imprinted almost indelibly on his memory. In

30 THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPERAMENTS.

society his manners are embarrassed and often awk-
ward ; yet he does not fail to excite interest and a sen-
timent akin to compassion. When he converses, his
imagination exerts itself powerfully, and he often uses
original and singularly expressive forms of language.
Indeed the imagination is at all times the strongest
fiwjulty of his mind. It creates a world for him, all
unlike the real one. He does not see things as they
are, but beholds in them only the reflections of his own
representations. His delight is in profound sentiment,
and he excels in the delineation of strong passions and
intense suffering. Powerful motives are required to
bring him to action. If suddenly called upon, when
he is not moved, he falters ; can decide on nothing ;
and appears to exhibit a complete inefficiency and un-
suitableness for business. But if strong excitement ac-
companies the unexpected summons, he comes with
energy and decision to the guidance of affairs, pours
forth his ideas in a torrent of extraordinary and irre-
sistible eloquence, and surpasses all expectation. It is
a weakness of the melanchoUc man, that he is always
contemplating himself; the operations of his own mind,
the real, or more probably, the imaginary woes of his
own experience. The sanguineous man is happy in his
fickleness; the bilious enjoys himself in the stir of
action ; the phlegmatic is content, if he is but left alone
to repose undisturbed ; the melanchoUc is quite satis-
fied only when discoursing, or musing on himself and

THE DOCTRINE OP TEMPERAMENTS. 81

his sorrows. So far he is liable to the charge of vanity ;
but no further. He does not form too high an estiinate
of himself; self-conceit is the pecuKar foible of the san-
guineous. Love is the ruling passion of the sangui-
neous ; ambition of the bilious ; the melancholy man is
haunted by a longing for glory. This gives an impulse
to his patriotism ; this kindles his imagination and leads
him to beautiful designs ; this prompts him to enter on
the career of letters ; this not unfrequently drives him
with irresistible power to nightly vigils and inunode-
rate toil, in the hope to enshrine his name among the
inunortal. He is tuuid, and his fastidious taste is
never satisfied with what he performs, though of all
men he can least brook censure ; so that he exhibits
the apparent contradiction of relying most obstinately
on a judgment which he himself distrusts. This diffi-
dence of himself may at first seem to injure the perfec-
tion and utihty of his labors. But his doubting makes
him anxious to finish his productions in the most care-
ful manner. To what else do we owe the perfect grace
and harmony of Virgil ? the compact expression and
pohshed elegance of Gray ?

If the melanchohc man errs in his practical estimate
of men, he at least studies the principles according to
which they act, and carefully analyzes their motives
and passions. He understands the internal operations
of their minds, even while he is unsuccessful in his
direct attempts at influencing them. He is himself

82 THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPEEAMENT8.

capable of a high and continued enthusiasm. Gifted
with affections which may be refined and elevated, he
can feel admiration for all that is beautiful and un-
selfish among men ; can pay homage to the fine arts ;
or be admitted to enjoy the serious pleasures afforded
by philosophy and poetry. He has no talent for light
humor and pleasantry ; but he excels in bitter retorts
and severity of satire. He is subject to ecstasies of
pleasure no less than of pain ; and the former become
him less than the latter. He possesses the virtue of
patience in the most eminent degree. Nothing can
fatigue or subdue him. Disappointments do not weary
him, nor can he be baffled by delay.

The history of Uterature and the arts is fiill of ex-
amples of this temperament ; on the world also, it has
frequentiy exercised a wide and lasting influence. The
most eloquent of modem philosophers, the gifted child
of Geneva, the outcast of fortune, offers an illustration.
How briUiant is his imagination ! What timidity
marks his character in smaller affairs ! What daimt-
less courage animated him, when he published truths
in defiance of the Roman Church and the ven-
geance of despots ! What a power also was exercised
over him by beauty! How willingly he offers his
Eloise in manuscript, on gilt-edged paper, neatly
sewed with ribands, to his accomplished patroness !
What ignorance of the world do we find in him, and
yet what discriminating delineations of the passions and

THE DOCTBINE OF TEMPERAMENTS. 83

hearts of men ! So long as a love of truth, of hberty,
of virtue, shall avail with charity to mitigate the con-
demnation of vices, which a defect of education may
paUiate but not excuse ; so long as splendor of imagina-
tion, keen reasoning, eloquent reproofs of fashionable
foUies and crimes, in a word, the fine thoughts and
style of genius, shall be admired, the name and the
writings of Rousseau will be remembered, and the ana-
lysis of his mind explain the organization which we are
describing.

In English poetry, Cowley seems to have been of
this temperament. Milton, originally bihous, acquired
something of it from age and misfortunes. It was
natural to the bard of Mautua; it threw the thick
cloud- of self-torturing gloom over the poet of chivalry
and the cross, the sweetest minstrel of his country,
or rather of all time, the inimitable Tasso.

These are instances of men devoted to letters.
History describes Demosthenes as of a slender form
and short breath; therefore, we infer, of a narrow
chest. His physiognomy has a gloomy expression, as
we know not only from the busts of him, but from the
insolent jests of iEschines. He is represented as of
unyielding fixedness of purpose ; a man, whom neither
the factions of the people, nor the clamors of the aris-
tocratic party, nor the gold of Macedonia, could move
from the career of disinterested patriotism. Arriving
at early manhood, he found an object worthy of the
3

34 THE DOCTRINE OF TSMPE&AMENTS.

employment of his life, and remamed trae to it in dan-
ger, in power, in success, in defeat, — ^at home, on em-
bassies, in exile, and in death. He was an ardent lover
of Uberty, smitten also with a true passion for glory.
Moreover in spite of his perseverance, he was naturally
timid. When he was presented at the court of Philip,
he is said to have been embarrassed, and to have
shown no proofs of his greatness. When called fix)m
the forum to the camp, he was not at once capable of
directing the battle. He was accustomed never to
address the Athenians except after careful preparation ;
yet, on great occasions, he was sometimes raised
beyond himself, and if excited and compelled to speak,
he did it as it were by inspiration, and with irresisti-
ble force. All these things are traits of the melanchoUc
temperament.

We think we are abundantly authorized by his-
torical evidence in these remarks on Demosthenes;
though, as far as our knowledge extends, he is cited
in none of the books of physiology. To this class
we venture to add the name of one still more glorious
in human annals, and we do it confidently, relying on
the portraits of his person and his moral character.
It is the illustrious mariner to whom this country has
recently paid high honors, by the pen of Washington
Irving. We mean Christopher Columbus, who was
inspired by the innate majesty of his own soul, to sail
so far into an unknown hemisphere.

THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPEBAMENT8. 85

" Ch* appena seguira con gli occhi il volo
La Fama, cV ha mille occhi, e mille penne.
Canta ella Aldde, e Bacco, e di te solo,
Basti a i posteri tuoi ch' alquanto accenne ;
Che quel poco da a lunga memoria
Di poema dignissima, e d' istoria."
Thus we see, that persons of the melanchoUc tem-
perament, possess great means of influencing others,
and exercising power over the destinies of mankind.
In our account of it, we have purposely avoided men-
tioning the monstrous crimes, which are described by
Cabanis, Richerand, and other physiologists, as its
natural effects. They are not so. Providence has
made no temperament morally evil or good. It has
exposed each to its own temptations, and facilitated to
each the acquisition of virtues. The rashness of the
sanguineous is counteracted by humanity and the softer
virtues ; the ambition of the bihous by clear reason and
a quick perception of what is just ; the weakness of the
melanchoUc by patience and unwearied application.
But it must be confessed that when they become cor-
rupt, their vices may produce very different degrees of
horror. The bilious man is never wantonly cruel or
wicked. Caesar, in his ambition, finished the ruin of
^his country's Uberties, but his success was not suUied
by bloody vengeance. Nero, who was sanguineous,
was at first humane, then fickle, then corrupt, and
when his innocence was gone, he made men miserable
for his amusement. Vengeance is the crime of the

36 THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPEEAMENTS.

melancholic. Witness the proscriptions of Sylla.
When the melanchoUc man surrenders himself to
the influence of malignant or degrading passions,
he is cold and merciless; his imagination is full of
corrupt images; his lusts are imnatural; his breast
conceives dark and hateful designs; he becomes in-
different to consequences ; he neither respects the hap-
piness of others nor is awed by the prospect of his own
ruin ; he is deaf to the voice of humanity, reckless of
nature, of God, and of eternity. Tiberius, Domitian,
PhiUp II. of Spain ; these are examples, — ^would there
were no more, — ^that the melancholic temperament may
be ruinous to public happiness. The mind turns gladly
from these men of atrocious souls, to the milder virtues
and the better genius of Burke or the elder Pitt.

Let the melancholic man, if he values health of
body, or mental peace, never jrield to indolence, and
shun solitude when his fancy begins to brood darkly
over his cares. His diet should be rich, moderate in
quantity, but nutritious. Fasting, or a low fare,
might give his passions a tragical power. Light wines
he may freely use. In ^vinter, if he will but be often
abroad, the cold weather will call off his thoughts from
his troubles. Sufficient exercise by day, and cheerful
company in the evening, will keep him in a good con- ,
dition. Summer is the dangerous season for him. The
solitary admiration of nature confirms all his evils.
" Go, soft enthusiast ! quit the cypress groves,
Nor to the rivulet's lonely moanings tune

THE DOCTRINE OP TEMPERAMENTS. 37

Your sad complaint. Go, seek the cheerful haunts
Of men, and mingle with the bustling crowd ;
Lay schemes or wealth, for power, or fame, the wish
Of nobler minds, and push them night and day.
Or join the caravan in quest of scenes
New to your eyes and shifting every hour.
Beyond the Alps, beyond the Apennines.
Or more adventurous, rush into the field
Where war grows hot ; and raging through the sky,
The lofty trumpet swells the maddening soul."

THE NERVOUS TEMPERAMENT.

We have finished the enumeration of temperaments,
as described by the fathers of medicine. The Greeks
recognized but four, considering the athletic only as a
modification of the sanguineous. Modem writers
form a distinct class of the athletic, and they add
another, of which examples doubtless existed among
the ancients, and which in modem times embraces no
inconsiderable portion of mankind.

The temperament to which we allude is the ner-
vous. We cannot readily give a type of its moral
character, for a part of its peculiarity is, that it admits
of the most various modifications. It is known by the
predominance of the sensitive part of the system. It
is not that the nerves are deranged, or delicate, or
weak ; on the contrary, the action of the nerves is dis-

38 THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPERAMENTS.

proportionately powerful ; they do their office too
effectually.

The nervous temperament is marked by extreme
sensibility. An impression is easily made ; the mind
is active and volatile ; flying hastily from one subject
and one feeling to another, not from fickleness, but
from a rapidity of associations. It is quick in making
combinations and forms its resolutions suddenly ; but
the durabiUty of these resolutions depends on the
texture of the fibres. If they are effeminate, the char-
acter is fickle; if they are hard, and in man, this
usually happens, the character is firm and possessed of
decision. In the latter case the nervous man is lean,
and as it were emaciated ; his muscles are compact ;
the eye bright and rapid. He is capable of the most
diversified action. He can instantaneously break from
deep devotion to give himself up to amusement, from
sympathy with the sorrows of others to mix in gaiety.
Sometimes he is distinguished in pubUc speaking ;
but wit and sarcasm, frequent illustrations, abrupt
transitions, are more natural to him than careful
reasoning or impassioned eloquence. He is scarcely
ever pathetic ; but he excels in epigrammatic con-
ceits, in the quick perception of the ludicrous, and
in the pointed expression of his ideas. He delights
in proverbs, and manufactures new ones. He is com-
monly eccentric in his ways; and while he is fre-
quently suspected of levity by the world, he retorts

THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPERAMENTS. 39

upon it by a cold philosophy, and a "contempt for
the malignant vulgar." The people of Neufchatel
dismissed their pastor, because he disbeUeved in the
eternity of future punishments. The pastor appealed
to Frederic, who declined interference. "If," said
he, and it was his only and his formal answer, — "if
the people of Neufchatel insist on being damned
for ever, I shall interpose no objections." Frederic
is the most striking example of the nervous tem-
perament. Voltaire also belonged to it. So too in
the north, we have no hesitation in classing under
it the Russian Suwarrow. In antiquity we think that
Socrates was an instance of it ; to the many he seemed
an odd buffoon ; but his friends and pupils knew that
his mind held glorious converse with the sublimest
truths. We further venture the suggestion, that the
eccentric apostate, the gifted Julian, possessed the
traits of the nervous class. Were we to name two
more, they should be the emperor Hadrian of Rome,
and his counterpart, the emperor Joseph of Austria.

Where this temperament exists in an intense de-
gree, it becomes a malady. Its remedy is exercise.
The balance must be restored between the sensitive
and the muscular forces ; and this can be effected only
by diminishing the action of the intellect and cultiva-
ting that of the animal nature. Nothing else can give
rest. Friendship, letters, business, action, all will
not avail, or rather will but increase the evil. The

40 THE DOCTBINE OF TEMPERAMENTS.

labors of agriculture, or any labor abroad, which will
gently occupy the thoughts, and at the same time
strengthen the body, are of most service. Children
of this class suflTer from too early attempts to cultivate
their minds. Such attempts are immediately followed
by great apparent results, but do in fact confirm the
natural weakness and misfortune of the individual.

THE TEMPERED TEMPERAMENT.

It will hardly be necessary to repeat, that these
temperaments are seldom found unmixed, although
one is usually predominant. In general it may be
observed, that the Sanguineous prevails at the north ;
the bilious at the south ; the phlegmatic in cold and
moist marshy countries. In our immediate vicinity,
examples of the sanguineous occur more frequently
than of any other. A mixture of the sanguineous
and the bflious is very common, and forms the tem-
perament best suited for the faithful and tranquil dis-
charge of private duties. The melanchoUc is also not
rare ; the nervous is unconmion, except in the other
sex; busy America does not produce decided cases
enough of the phlegmatic to bring them into the
account.

And which is the best temperament? Each is
content with itself. The bihous man thinks no hours
worth remembering, except those which have been

THE DOCTRINE OP TEMPERAMENTS. 41

passed in the midst of ambitious toil. But do you think
that the sanguineous will desert his pleasant fireside,
abandon his cheerfulness, and restrain the fickle wan-
derings of his aflfections, for all the boasted superiority
of the bihous temperament ? Or that the melancholic
man, in love with himself and his mournful humor, de-
sires a change in his constitution ? Or that the phleg-
matic indolence, which cares not whether the world
was made for Caesar or no, would wish to part with its
indifference, and figure in the career of public honors ?
Providence has been merciful and benevolent to each.
The best temperament, the beau ideal, is compounded
of all the rest, and we will call it the tempered temper-
ament; in which the happiest proportion of the ele-
ments is observed, so that nature may be proud of her
production. This model may never have existed in per-
fection : many of the wise and good, who have been
the benefactors of mankind, have approached near
to it ; our own Washington nearest of all.

We have now explained the six classes, into which
all physical peculiarities and the corresponding moral
ones may be resolved. It no longer remains difficult to
show how men vary firom one another in the manner in
which we have stated. That a peculiar temperament
distinguishes a nation, no one who wiU consult history,
or look through the world,. at the Turks, the Dutch,
the Spaniards, can deny. It is equally obvious that
the same defects and advantages of original organi-

42 THE DOCTRINE OF TEMPERAMENTS.

zation are transmitted in families. The distinction
between individuals is as apparent as between the
races.

It is only in the comparison between man in one
age and another, that physiologists, following the indi-
cations of Plato in his impracticable theory of a repub-
lic, beUeve it possible to effect great changes and im-
provements in his condition. When these ingenious
observers are admitted to offer coimsel, the most bril-
liant prospects are opened for the amehoration of the
human race, and the happiness, health, and virtue of
future generations. The companions of man's exist-
ence, his dogs and his horses, have already seen the
epoch of regeneration ; it does but remain for him now
to try upon himself, what he has so successfully at-
tempted upon others ; to review, says the illustrious
Cabanis, who, for the most part, uses words consider-
ately, " to review and correct the work of nature." " A
daring enterprise " he may well add. In that happy
condition, which the physiologists are to prepare, the
inequahties of temperaments are to be removed, and a
mixture of the elements in the happiest proportions is
to form a healthful body, the dwelling and the instru-
ment of a healthful mind. There will then be no more
of atrabihous frenzy ; no more of athletic dulness ; the
phlegmatic are to exchange their inertness for the Uve-
lier exercise of their bodies and the cheering efforts of
imagination; and the sanguineous to be metamor-

THE DOCTEINE OP TEMPERAMENTS. 43

phosed from frivolity to fixedness, from inattention
and indecision to steadfastness of purpose. There is
still to be an infinite variety of character, resulting
chiefly from the influence of climate, age, regimen, and
pursuits ; but there is to be no more excess. Good-
ness is to be ingrafted on every member of the human
race. There is to be no more sorrowing for ideal
suffering ; the compressed lungs of the melancholy are
to find reUef and freedom; their sombre features to
kindle with habitual cheerfulness. And then this
blessed age of our late posterity, is to wonder at
the present ; and to read with astonishment, that the
science of physiology and the kindred studies have had
no more influence in a century which boasts, and in
many respects may justly boast, of its enlightened
condition.

With the best wishes for this improved race of
man, which future times may behold, we turn to the
world around us, where the thousand inadvertencies,
folKes, and excesses of men, continue to make them
heirs to a thousand evils. Enough we beUeve, has
been said to show, that the care and culture of the
physical system should be methodically pursued, in
order to promote the health, just action, and harmo-
nious co-operation of the body and the mind.

ENNUI.

I.

Ennui is a word which the French invented,
though of all nations in Europe they know the least
of it; while the Turks, with their untiring gravity,
lethargic dignity, blind fatalism, opium-eating, and
midnight profligacies, have undoubtedly the largest
share. Next to the Turks, the EngUsh suffer most
fix)m it. Hear the account which their finest poetical
genius of the present century gives of himself, when he
was hardly of age :

" With pleasure dragged he almost longed for woe,
And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades
below."
The complamts of a young man in the bloom
of life and the vigor of early hope, cannot excite much
sympathy. But in his fullest maturity he still draws
the appalling picture of imalleviated ennui, in language
that was the mournful echo of his mind.

" 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it has ceased to move ;
Yet, though I canot be beloved.

Still let me love."

ENNUI.

45

" My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone ;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone."

Such was the harassed state of Lord Byron, at the
epoch which seemed to promise him a crowded suc-
cession of exciting sensations. He was straggling
for honor on the parent soil of glory; he was sur-
rounded by the stir and tumult of barbarous warfare ;
he had the consciousness, that the eyes of the civilized
world were fixed upon his actions ; he professed enthu-
siasm in behalf of Uberty ; and yet there was not irri-
tation enough in the new and busy life of the camp, to
overcome his apathy. He only sought to give away
his breath on the field, and take his rest in a soldier's
grave.

The Uterature of the hour is essentially transient.
The pubUc mind seizes rapidly every discovery ; and
rightly claims the instant distribution of trath. But
with this is connected a feverish excitement for novelty.
The world, in the earUest period of which accounts have
reached us, followed after the newest strains ; and now
the voice of the past, all musical as it is with the finest
harmonies of human inteUigence, is lost in the jangling
din of temporary discussions. Philosophy steals from
the crowd, and hides herself in retirement, awaiting a
better day ; eradition is undervalued, and almost dis-
appears. It would seem, as though the wise men of

46 ENNUI.

old frowned in anger on the turbulence of the petty
passions, and withdrew from the contentious haunts,
where wisdom has no votaries, and tranquiUity no
followers. In the days of ancient Uberty, the public
places rung with the nervous eloquence of sublime
philosophy ; and the streets of Athens offered nothing
more attractive than the keen discussions, the piercing
satire, and the calm philanthropy of Socrates. But
now it is ephemeral politics which rule the city and
the country; the times of deep reflection, of slowly
maturing thought; are gone by ; the age of studious
learning is past, and every thing is carried along the
rushing current of pubUc economy, or of private
business. Life is divided between excited passions
and morbid indifference.

And is this current so strong, that it cannot be
resisted ? Can we never separate ourselves from the
throng, and with dispassionate coolness, watch the
various emotions and motives, by which society is
swayed?

The moralists, who utter their oracles in the com-
monplace complaints of a heathenish discontent, tell us,
that we are bom but to pursue, and pursue but to be de-
ceived. They say that man in his eagerness for earthly
honors, is like the child that chases the gaudy insect ;
the pursuit idle ; the object worthless. They tell us,
that it is but an illusive star, which beams from the
summit of the distant hill ; advance, and its Ught re-

ENNUI. 47

cedes ; ascend, and a wider space is yet to be traversed,
and a higher hill is seen beyond. And they tell us,
that this is vanity. But how poorly have they studied
the secrets of the human breast ! How imperfectly do
they understand the feebleness and the strength of
man's fortitude ! If glory still rests on the remotest hill,
if the distant sky is still invested with the deUcate hues
of promise, pursuit remains a pleasure ; and the pilgrim,
ever Ught-hearted, passes heedlessly over each rugged
barrier. But suppose the alluring star to be blotted
out ; the lustre of the horizon to have faded into the
shades of a cloudy evening; the pursuit to be now
without an object ; and the blood which hope had sent
merrily through the veins, to curdle round the despond-
ing heart. Then it is, that the springs of joy are poi-
soned by the demons of listlessness.

The scholar and the Christian have guarantees
against despair. The desire for inteUigence is never
satisfied but with the attainment of that wisdom which
passes all understanding ; and the mind discerning the
bright lineaments of its perfect exemplar, can set no
limits to the sacred passion, which recognises the con-
nection of the human with the divine, and places
before itself a boundless career of advancement. But
it is not with these high questions that we are at pres-
ent engaged. We have thrown open the book of
human life ; we are to read there of this world and
its littleness, of the springs of present action, of the
relief of present restlessness.

48 ENNUI.

We have said, that the pursuit of a noble object is
in itself a pleasure. It is to the mind which shuns the

( forming a definite design, that the imiverse seems de-

\ ficient in the means of happiness, and existence becomes

^ a prey to the fiend of ennui.

Let us analyze this sensation more accurately. Let

I us fix with exactness the true signification of ennui.
Let us see if it be widely diffused. -Let us ascertain
the limits of its influence. Perhaps the investigation
may lead us to a more intimate acquaintance with our
nature.

II.

Ennui is the desire of activity without the fit means
of gratifying the desire. It presupposes an acknowl-
edgment of exertion as a duty, and a consciousness of
the possession of powers suited to making an exertion.
It is itself a state of idleness, yet of disquiet ; a discon-
tented inertness ; an indeterminate craving and cease-
less mobihty, without any commensurate purpose.
Wherever a course of conduct is the result of cheerful
efforts to gain a livelihood, of a passion for inteUigence,
a zeal for glory, or to sum up a great variety of theories
in one, of a just and enlightened self-love, there no ves-
tige of ennui can be found. But should the primary
motives of human effort fail, should the mind become
a prey to listlessness and gnaw upon itself, all its de-
vices to escape fix)m this self-destructive process, are to

ENNUI. 49

be ascribed to the presence of ennui. The most ener-
getic of our race, in the very crisis of their career, if per-
chance they are compelled to hesitate in the choice of
their measures^ and must wait fresh tidings before
rushing to the field of action, may suffer from its tor-
ments during the hours of expectation, which alike
refuse to be filled up or to pass away. Industry itself
may tire of its ^k ; and its longings for reUef and
change may bring with it disgust at its routine and a
sense of weariness that can yet find no rest. Even the
most indefatigable zealot, on attaining the result of his
long, and hearty, and well directed efforts, may at the
very moment of perfect success give way to the senti-
ment of satiety or of lassitude, and suffer the pain of
discovering that all is vanity and vexation of spirit,
and that there is no profit under the sun.

It is ennui that stupefies the dull preacher, who
yawns over his weekly office and reads a lifeless sermon
of which " the saw " puts the sinner to sleep. Often in
the endless repetitions of the lawyer you may plainly
see how he loathes

" To drudge for the dregs of men.
And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen.^

The life of Napoleon, in the very moment of
most imminent danger, presents a marvellous instance
of ennui. While the allies were collecting around him
m their utmost strength, he Ti^as himself wavering in
his purposes, and reluctant to decide on the retreat to
4

50 ENNUI.

Leipsic. An eye-witness relates, " I have seen him at
that time seated on a sofa, beside a table on which lay
his charts, totally unemployed, unless in scribbling me-
chanically large letters on a sheet of white paper." So
heavily and slowly dragged the hours 'of suspense for
the mighty warrior, at a time, when, in his own lan-
guage, nothing but a thunderbolt could have saved him.
Or, to take an example fix)m the earliest monument
of Grecian genius. Achilles, in the pride of youth,
engaged in his favorite profession of arms, making his
way to an immortality secured to him by the voice of
his goddess mother, sure to gain the victory in any
contest, and selecting for his reward the richest spoils
and the fairest maid, Achilles, the heroic heathen, was
fiilly and satisfactorily employed, and according to his
semi-barbarous notions of joy and right, was happy
within his own breast, and was happy in the world
around him. When the same youthful warrior was in-
sulted by the leader under whose banners he had
rallied, when the recesses of his tent were invaded and
his domestic peace disturbed, his mind was strongly
agitated by love, anger, hatred, the passion for strife,
and the intense effort at forbearance ; and though there
was here room enough for activity, there was nothing
but pain and misery. But when the dispute was over,
and the pupil of the Centaur, trained for strife, and vic-
tory, and glory, withdrew from the army, and gave
himself up to an inactive contemplation of the struggle

ENNUI. 51

•

against Troy, his energies were absorbed in the morbid
feeUng of ennui. Homer was the truest painter of the
human passions. The picture which he draws of
Achilles, receiving the subsequent deputation from the
Greeks, illustrates our subject exactly. It was in vain
for the hero to attempt to soothe his mind with the
melodies of the lyre; his blood kindled only at the
music of war : it was idle for him to seek pleasure in
celebrating the renown of heroes ; this was but a vain
effort to quell the burning desire to surpass them in
glory. He listens to the deputation, not tranquilly,
but peevishly. He charges them with duplicity, and
avows that he loathes their king like the gates of hell.
He next reverts to himself: "The warrior has no
thanks," he exclaims in the bitterness of disappoint-
ment; "the coward and the brave man are held in
equal honor." Nay, he goes further, and quarrels with
providence and fixed destiny. " After all," says he,
" the idler, and the man of many achievements, each
must die." "To-morrow," he adds, "my vessels shall
float on the Hellespont." The morning dawned ; but
the ships of Achilles still lingered near the banks of the
Scamander. The notes of the battle sounded, and he
was still in suspense between the fiery impulse for war
and the haughty reserve of revenge.

When Bruce approached the sources of the Nile, a
thousand sentiments of pride rushed upon his mind ;
he seemed to himself more fortunate and more glorious

52 ENNUI.

than any European king or warrior, conqueror or
traveller, that had ever attempted to penetrate into the
interior of Africa. This .was a moment of exultation
and triumphant delight. But when he had actually
reached the ultimate object of his research, he has him-
self recorded the emotions which were awakened
within him. At the fountain-head of the Nile, Bruce
was almost a victim to sentimental ennui.

In this anecdote of the Abyssinian traveller, we
have an example of the rapidity with which disgust
treads on the heels of triumph. We will cite another,
where misery was followed and consummated by ennui.
The most eloquent of the Girondists was Vergniaud.
It was he that in the spirit of prophecy compared the
French revolution to Saturn, since it was about to
devour successively all its children, and finally to estab-
Ush despotism with its attendant calamities. The
rivalship of the Mountain in the Convention, the imsuc-
cessful attack on Robespierre, the trial and condemna-
tion of Louis XVI., the defection of Dumourier and its
consequences, had roused the mind of the fervent but
foredoomed orator to the strongest efforts which the
consciousness of wavering fortunes and the menace of
utter ruin, patriotism, honor, and love of life, could call
forth. At last came the day, fraught with horrors,
when the clamors of a despotic and inexorable mob,
claimed of the Convention Vergniaud and his associates,
the Uttle remnant of republican sincerity, to be the vie-

ENNUI. 53

tims of their fiendish avidity for blood. Who will
doubt, that during that fearful session the highest pos-
sible excitement called him into the highest possible
activity ! Here there was no room for listlessness, and
quite as little for happiness. The guarantees of order
were failing, and friends were to be buried under the
same ruins with the remains of regular legislative au-
thority. Vergniaud retired from the scenes where the
foulest of the dogs of war were howling for their prey,
and when Gregoire found him out in his hiding-place,
the republican orator, though robbery and massacre
were triumphant in the city, was discovered reading
Tacitus. Why ? From affectation ? Surely not ; Gre-
goire's visit was unexpected. From cool philosophy ?
Still less. The studies of Vergniaud on that day were
the studies of a man burning for action, and having
nothing before him but the heavy weariness of idle
hours that seemed to lag forever.

Ennui was the necromancer which conjured up the
ghost of Caesar on the eve of the battle of Phillippi.
And when Brutus prematurely esteemed the day lost,
he had yet to wrestle with that imseen enemy, and
enter on a new contest, where he was sure to be over-
thrown. " Oh liberty ! What crimes are conunitted in
thy name," cried Madame Roland as she passed to the
scaffold through intense and unmitigated suffering,
dignifying the scene by the majesty of her own forti-
tude. The Boman had no such nobleness of nature ;

54 ENNUI.

" Oh virtue ! thou art but a name/' he exclaimed, as he
resolved on suicide. When Brutus dared to despair
of virtue, the atrocious sentiment was dictated, not by
the spirit that had aspired to restore the Uberties of the
world, but by the demon of ennui, which in an evil
hour had possessed itself of the pretended patriot's
soul.

Finally, to take but one more example, the timid
lover, whose affections are moved, yet not tranquillized,
who gazes with the eyes of fondness on an object that
seems to be of a higher world, and admires as the stars
are admired, which are acknowledged to be beautiful
yet are never possessed ; the timid lover neither wholly
doubting, nor wholly hoping; the sport alternately
of joy and of sorrow ; fiill of thought and full of
longing ; feeling the sentiment of rapture yield to the
faintness of uncertain hope, is half his time a true per-
sonification of ennui.

III.

That the activity of ennui is widely diffused, will
hardly be denied by any careful observer of himaan
nature. No individual can conscientiously claim to
have been always and wholly free from its temptations,
except where there has been a life springing from the
purest sources, sanctified by the early influence of
religious motives, and protected frcm erroneous judg-

ENNUI. 55

ments by the steady exercise of a healthful under-
standmg. For the rest, though few are constantly
afficted with it as an incurable evil, there are still
fewer who are not at times made to suflfer from its
assaults. It lays its heavy hand alike on the man of
business and the recluse ; it has its favorite haunts in
the city, but it chases the aspirant after rurd feUcity,
into the scenes of his rural listlessness ; it makes the
young melancholy, and the aged garrulous ; it haunts
the saUor and the merchant ; it appears to the warrior
and to the statesman ; it takes its place in the curule
chair, and sits also at the frugal board of old-fashioned
simplicity. You cannot flee from it ; you cannot hide
from it; it is swifter than the birds of passage, and
swifter than the breezes that scatter clouds. It climbs
the ship of the restless who long for the suns of Eu-
rope ; it jumps up behind the horseman who scours
the woods of Michigan; it throws its scowling glances
on the attempt at present enjoyment ; it scares the epi-
curian from his voluptuousness, and when the ascetic
has finished his vow, it compels him to repeat the tale
of his beads.

To the prevalence of ennui must be traced the
craving for intense excitement. When life has become
almost stagnant, and the ordinary course of events
proves unable to awaken any strong interest, ennui
assumes a terrific power, and clamors for emotion,
though that emotion is to be purchased by scenes of

56 ENNUI.

horror and of crime. " What a magnificent entertain-
ment!" said the Parisian mob, "how interesting a
spectacle to see a woman of the wit and courage of
Madame Roland pass mider the guillotine I " And the
sensitive admirer of works of fiction ransacks the
shelves of a Ubrary for novels of thrilling and " pain-
ful " interest.

To the same kind of restless vacancy we have to
ascribe the demand for the vehement declamations of
the tragic actor, and the splendid music of the opera ;
the cunning tricks of the village conjuror, and the
lascivious pantomime of the city ballet-dancers; the
disgusting varieties of bull-fights, and the murderous
feats of pugilism. It has sometimes driven men to
indulge the locomotive zeal of the professed pedes-
trians, and sometimes to seek the perfect quiescence of
the " pillar saints."

The habits of ancient Rome illustrate most clearly
the extent to which the passion for strong sensations
may hurry the public mind into extravagances, and
repress every sentiment of sympathy and generosity.
Ambition itself is not so reckless of human life as
ennui ; clemency is a favorite attribute of the former ;
but ennui has the tastes of a cannibal, and the sight
of human blood, shed for its amusement, makes it
greedy after a renewal of the dreadful indulgence.
The shows of the ancient gladiators were attended
by an infinitely more numerous throng than is ever

ENNUI. 57

gathered by any modem spectacle. The fondness for
murderous exhibitions raged with such vehemence,
that they were at length introduced as an attraction
at the banquet, and the guests, as they reclined at
table in the luxury of physical ease, have been wet by
the life-blood of the wounded gladiators.

Quinetiam exhilarare viris convivia caede
Mos olim, et miscere epulis spectacula dira
Certantum ferro, saepe et super ipsa cadentum
Pocula, respersis nonparco sanguine mensis.
Time would fail us were we to illustrate the various
atrocities which attended these diversions, designed to
amuse the most refined population of Rome ; or even
to enumerate the various classifications in the art of
murder on the stage. And let it not be supposed, that
the life of one of these combatants was the more safe,
because it depended on the interposition of the Roman
fair. The signals in token of relenting clemency, pro-
ceeded conmaonly fi^om the multitude ; the more usual
signal, made by virgins and matrons, demanded the
continuance of the combat unto death. We call Titus
the deUght of the himian race, and praise his common-
place puerility, perdidi diem, though it was the ex-
clamation of conceit, rather than of manliness. It
was this philanthropist, this favorite of humanity,
who caused the vast Roman amphitheatre to be erect-
ed, as it were a monument to all ages of the barbarous
civilization of the capital of his empire. And as to the

58 ENNUI.

numbers who appeared on these occasions, was it a
pair? or a score? We will not ask after the mas-
sacres conunanded and consummated by a Tiberius
or a Cahgula. Trajan was a discreet prince; dis-
posed to introduce habits of industry. Yet he kept
up a succession of games to cheat the population of
Rome of ennui, during a hundred and twenty-three
days, in which time ten thousand gladiators were
decked for sacrifice.

Thus the intenseness of this passion is evident fipom
the method of relief which it required. We may also
remark, that superstition itself, interwoven as it is
with aU the fears and weaknesses of humanity, sub-
jects the human mind to a bondage less severe and less
permanent than that of the terrific craving after some-
thing to dissipate the weariness of the heart. At
Rome the sacrifices to the heathen deities were abol-
ished before the games of the gladiators were sup-
pressed ; it was less difficult to take firom the priests
their spoils, from the altars their victims, from the
prejudices of the people their reUgious faith, than to
rescue from ennui the miserable wretches whose Uves
were to be the sport of the idle. The laws already
forbade offering the bull to Jove, when the poet still
had to pray that none might perish in the city imder
the condenmation of pleasure,

Nullus in urbe cadat, cujus sit poena voluptas.

ENNUI. 59

Philosophy itself offers no guarantee against the
common infirmities of listlessness. Many a stoic has
resisted the attacks of external evil with an exemplary
fortitude^ and has yet failed in his encounter with
time. Strange, indeed, that time should be an incum-
brance to a sage I Strange indeed, that, when life is so
short, and the range of thought boundless, and time
the most precious of gifts, dealt out to us in successive
moments, a possession which is most coveted, and can
the least be hoarded, which comes, but never returns,
which departs as soon as given, and is lost even in
the receiving, — strange, indeed, that such a grant, so
acceptable, so fleeting, and so irrevocable, should ever
press severely upon a philosopher !

And yet wisdom is no security against ennui.
The man who made Europe ring with his eloquence,
and largely contributed to the spirit of repubUcan
enthusiasm, wasted away for months in a state of the
most foolish torpidity, under the idea that he was
dying of a polypus at his heart. Nay, this specu-
latist, who presimaed to believe himself skilled in the
ways of man and an adept in those of women, who
dared to expound religion and proposed to reform Chris-
tianity, who committed and confessed the meanest
actions, and yet, as if in the presence of the Supreme
Arbiter of Ufe and before the tribunal of Eternal
Justice, arrogated to himself an equality with the
purest in the innumerable crowd of the immortal —

60 ENNUI.

he, the proud one, would so far yield to ennui, as
to put the final and eternal welfare of his soul at
issue on the throw of a stone. "/<? nien vais,'* he
says to himself, ''je men vais jeter cette pierre contre
Varbre qui est vis-a-vis de moi : si je le louche^ signe
de salut; sije la manque^ signe de damnation^

But Jean Jacques passes for a madman. The
temperate Spinoza, being cut off firom active life and
fi*om social love, necessarily encountered a void within
himself^ It was his favorite resource to catch spiders
and teach them to fight ; and when he had so far made
himself master of the nature of these animals, that he
could get them as angry as game cocks, he would, all
thin and feeble as he was, break out into a roar of
laughter, and chuckle to see his champions engage, as
if they, too, were fighting for honor.

Poor Spinoza! It may indeed be questioned,
whether his whole philosophy was not a sort of pas-
time with him. It may be, that he was ingenious
because he could not be quiet, and wrote fipom a
want of something to do. At any rate it has fared
strangely with his works. The world had well-nigh
become persuaded, that Spinoza was but a name for
the most desolating form of atheism, and next he
is canonized. The skeptic Bayle heaps ridicule upon
the great Jewish dialectician; the dreamer Novalis,
who himself died of ennui, revered him as a model of
sanctity.

ENNUI. 61

But we have a stronger example than either of
these. The very philosopher, who first declared ex-
perience to be the basis of knowledge, and found
his way to truth through the safe places of observation,
gives in his own character some evidences of partici-
pation in the conmion infirmity. He said very truly,
that there is a foolish comer even in the brain of the
sage. Yet if there has ever appeared on earth a man
possessed of reason in its highest perfection, it was
Aristotle. He had the gift of seeing the forms of
things, undisturbed by the confusing splendor of
their hues ; his faculties, like the art of sculpture, rep-
resented objects with the most precise outlines and
exact images ; but the world in his mind was a
colorless world. He understood and has explained
the secrets of the human heart; but he performs
his moral dissections with the coolness of an anato-
mist, engaged in a delicate operation. The nicety of
his distinctions, and his deep insight into nature, are
displayed without passion, while his constant effort
after the discovery of new truth, never for one moment
betrays him into mysticism, or tempts him to substitute
shadows for reahties. One would think, that such a
master of analysis was the personification of self-posses-
sion ; that his unruffled mind would always dwell in the
serene regions of inteUigence ; that his step would rest
on the firm ground of experience ; that his progress to
the sublime temple of truth and of fame, would have

62 ENNUI.

been ever secure and rapid; that happiness itself would
have blessed him in his tranquil devotedness to exalted
pursuits.

In the mouth of Pindar, life might be called a
dream, and it would but pass for the eflftision of poetic
melancholy. But when the sagacious philosopher as-
serts, that all hope is but the dream of waking man, the
solemn expression of discontent is but the sad confes-
sion of his own unsatisfied curiosity ; and nothing but
the wonderful vigor of his mind could have preserved
him from settled gloom.

Again the venerable sage examined into the sources
of happiness. It does not consist, he affirms, in volup-
tuous pleasures, for they are transient, brutalizing, and
injurious to the mind ; nor in pubUc honors, for they
depend on those who bestow them, and it is not
feUcity to be the recipient of an uncertain bounty;
nor yet does happiness consist in riches, for the care
of them is but a toil ; and if they are expended, it is
plainly a proof, that contentment is sought for in the
possession of other things. In his view, happiness
consists in the pursuit of knowledge, and in the prac-
tice of virtue, under the auspices of mind, and nature,
and fortune. He that is intelligent, and yoimg, and
handsome, and vigorous, and rich, is alone the happy
man. Did the world need the sublime wisdom, the
high endowment of the Stagyrite, to teach, that nei-
ther the poor, nor the dull, nor the aged, nor the sick.

ENNUI. 63

can share in the highest blessings of mortal being?
When it is remembered that Aristotle was favored
above all his contemporaries in intellectual gifts, we
invite the reader to draw an inference as to the state of
his mind, which still demanded the beauties of per-
sonal attractions, and the lavish liberality of fortune.

When asked what is the most transient of fleeting
things, the philosopher made but a harsh answer, in
naming "gratitude;" but his mind must have been
sadly a prey to ennui, when he could exclaim, " My
friends ! there are no friends."

He was not willing to sit or stand still, when he
gave lessons in moral science ; but walked to and fix>
in constant restlessness. Indeed, if tradition reports
rightly, he did not wait the will of Heaven for his
release from weariness, but in spite of all his sublime
teachings and all his expansive genius, he was content
to die as the fool dieth.

But eimui kills others beside philosophers. It is
not without example, that men have died by their own
hand, because they have attained their utmost wishes.
The man of business, finding himself possessed of a
sufficient fortune, retires from his wonted employments ;
but the habit of action remains, and becomes a power
of terrific force. In such cases, the sufferer whiles
away listless hours of intense suffering; the mind
preys upon itself, and sometimes life ebbs of itself,
sometimes suicide is committed.

64 ENNUI.

Saul went out to find his father's asses. Pleased
with the humble employment he made search with a
light heart and an honest one. But, seeking asses, he
found a kingdom ; and tranquiUity fled when posses-
sion was complete. The reproofs "of conscience and
discontent with the world produced in him a morbid
melancholy, and pain itself would have been to him
a welcome refuge from ennui.

We detect the same subtle spirit at work in the
slanders in which gossips find reUef. Truth is not ex-
citing enough to those who depend on the characters
and Uves of their neighbors for all their amusement ;
and if a story is told of more than common interest,
ennui is sure to have its joy in adding embellishments.
If hours did not hang heavy, what would become of
seandal ? Time, the common enemy, must be passed,
as the phrase is, and the phrase bears its own com-
mentary ; and since the days of gladiators are gone by,
what better substitute than blackening the reputation
of the Kving? To the pusiQanimous and the idle,
scandal is the condiment of life ; and while backbiting
furnishes their entertainment abroad, domestic quarrel-
ling fills up the leisure hours at home. It is a pretty
general rule, that the medisante is a termagant in her
household ; and, as for our own sex, in nine cases out
of ten, the evil tongue belongs to a disappointed man.

Fashion, also, in its excess, is but a reUef against
ennui ; and it is strong evidence of the universal preva-

ENNUI. 65

lence of lisUessness^ that a change in dress at Paris
can, within a few months, be imitated in St. Louis.
But not ennui, a milder influence sways the conduct
of the young and the fjEtir. The latent consciousness of
beauty, the charm of an existence that is opening in
the fulness of its attractions, the becoming loveliness
of innocence and youth, the simple cheerfulness of in-
experience, lead them to find deUght in a modest and
graceful display. The imrivalled Broadway is not
without its loungers ; yet of these the young and the
gay are not discontented ones. In the strength of
their own charms, they, like the patriot statesman,
neither shun nor yet court admiration; and as they
move along the brilliant street, half coveting half re-
fusing attention,
" They feel that they are happier than they know/'
From Broadway we pass to the crowded haunts of
business. Is ennui found there? Do the money-
changers grow weary of profits ? Is business so dull
that bankers are without employment? Have the
underwriters nothing at sea to be anxious about ? Do
the insurers on life forget to exhort the holders of its
poUcies to temperance and exercise? These are all
too profoundly engaged and too Uttle romantic, to
be moved by sentimental repinings. But there are
those, who plunge headlong into affairs from the rest-
lessness of their nature, and who hurry into bold enter-

66 ENNUI.

prises, because they cannot endure to be idle. Business,
like poetry, requires a tranquil mind; but there are
those, who venture upon its tide, under the impulse of
ennui. How shall the young and haughty heirs of
large fortunes rid themselves of their time, and acquit
themselves in the eye of the pubhc of their imagined
responsibilities ? One writes a tale for the Souvenirs,
another speculates in stocks. The former is laughed
at, yet hoards an estate ; the latter is food for hungry
sharks. Then comes bankruptcy ; and sober thought
repels the fiend that had been making a waste of life ;
or the same passion drives its possessor to become a
busy-body and zealot in the current excitement of the
times ; or absolute despair, ennui in its intensity, leads
to insanity.

For the mad-house, too, as well as the debtor's
jail, is recruited by the same blighting power, and
nature recovers from languid apathy by the excitement
of frenzy. Or the thought of suicide creeps in ; fancy
revels in the contemplation of the grave, and covets
the aspect of death as the face of a familiar friend.
The mind invests itself in the sombre shades of a mel-
ancholy longing after eternal rest — a longing which is
sometimes connected with unqualified disbelief, and
sometimes associated with an undefined desire of a
purely spiritual existence.

BNNUI. 67

IV.

We might multiply examples of the very eirtensive
prevalence of that mihappy languor of which we are
treating. Let us aim rather at observing the limit of
its power.

It was a mistaken philosophy, which beUeved in
ennui as an evidence and a means of human perfec-
tibility. The only exertions which it is capable of pro-
ducing, are of a subordinate character. It may give
to passion a fearful intensity, consequent on a'state of
moral disease ; but human virtue must be the result of
far higher causes. The exercise of principle, the gene-
rous force of purified emotions, cheerful desire, and
willing industry, are the parents of real greatness. K
we look through the various departments of pubUc and
of intellectual action, we shall find the mark of inferior-
ity upon every thing which has sprung fi-om ennui. In
the mechanic arts it may contrive a balloon, but never
could invent a steamboat. In philosophy it might
beget the follies of Cynic oddity, but not the sublime
lessons of Pythagoras. In religion, it stumbles at a
thousand knotty points in metaphysical theology, but
it never led the soul to intercourse with Heaven, or to
the contemplation of divine truth.

The celebrated son of Phihp, " Macedonia's mad-
man," was of exalted genius ; and poUtical wisdom had
its share in his career. Ennui could never have pro-

68 ENNUI.

duced him ; but it may well put in its claim to the
Swede. Or let us look rather for a conqueror, who
dreamed that he had genius to rival Achilles, and yet
never formed a settled plan of action. The famous
king of Epirus has seemed to be an historical puzzle,
so uncertaiD was his purpose, so wavering his character.
Will you know the whole truth about him ? Pyrrhus
was an ennuye.

In verse, ennui may produce effusions from " per-
sons of quality," devoid of wit and sense ; but not the
satire of Pope. When a poet writes a song for hire,
or solely to be sung to some favorite air, it is more than
probable his verses will be lifeless, and his meaning
doubtful. Thus, for example, —

" The smiles of joy, the tears of woe.
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow."
This is sheer nonsense, the evidence of a vacant mind.
Joy smiles in good earnest, and many an aching heart
knows too well the deep truth of distress.

It is dangerous for a man of superior ability to find
himself thrown upon the world without some regular
employment. The restlessness inherent in genius being
thus left undirected by any permanent influence, frames
for itself occupations out of accidents. Even moral in-
tegrity sometimes falls a prey to this want of fixed
pursuits. Genius, so left without guidance, attains no
noble ends ; but resembles rather a copious spring, con-

ENNUI. . 69

veyed in a decaying aqueduct ; where the waters contin-
ually waste away through the firequent crevices. The law
of nature is here, as elsewhere, binding ; and no pow-
erful results ever ensue from the trivial exercise of high
endowments. The finest mind, when destitute of a
fixed purpose, passes away without leaving permanent
traces of its existence.

These remarks apply perhaps in some measure
even to Leibnitz, whose intelligence and mental ac-
tivity were the wonder of his age. He attained
celebrity, but hardly a contented spirit ; at times he
descended to the consideration of magnitudes infinitely
small, and at times rose to the beUef that he heard the
universal harmony of nature ; for years he was devoted
to iDustrating the antiquities of the family of a petty
prince ; and then again he assumed the sublime office
of defending the perfections of Providence. Yet with
this variety of pursuit, the great philosopher was hardly
to be called a happy man ; and it is enough to fill us
with melancholy to find, that the very theologian who
would have proved this to be absolutely the best of
all possible worlds, ' died of chagrin. Our subject
is more fully illustrated in the case of a less gifted,
though a notorious man, the fiEuned Lord Bolingbroke.
His talents as a writer have secured him a distinguished
place in the Uterature of England ; and his poUtical ser-
vices, during the reign of Queen Anne, have rendered
him illustrious in English history. But though he was

70 ENNUI.

possessed of wit, eloquence, family, wealth, and oppor-
tunity, he never displayed true dignity of character, or
real greatness of soul. He appeared to have no fixed
principles of action ; and to have loved contest more
than victory. Wherever there was strife, there you
might surely expect to meet St. John ; and his pubhc
career almost justifies the inference, that after a defeat
apostasy seemed to him a moderate price for permis-
sion to appear again in thei lists. But as he always
coveted power with an insatiable avidity, he never could
rest long enough to acquire it. On the stormy sea of
pubhc life, he was for ever struggling to be on the top-
most wave ; but the waves receded as fast as he ad-
vanced ; and fate seemed to have destined him to
firuitless efibrts and as firuitless changes.

In early life he sought distinction by his debauch-
eries ; and succeeded in becoming the most daring
profligate in London. Tired of the excess of dissipa-
tion, he attempted the career of pohtics, and found his
way into Parliament under the auspices of the whigs.
When pohtics failed, he put on the mask of a metaphy-
sician. Weary of that costume, he next attempted to
play the farmer. Dissatisfied with farming, he wrote
pohtical pamphlets. Still discontented, he strove to
undermine the basis of the religious faith of his
country.

He began pubhc life as a whig ; but as the tories
were in the ascendant, he rapidly ripened into a tory ;

ENNUI. 71

he ended his poUtical career by deserting the tones,
and avowing the doctrines of stanch and uncom-
promising whigs. He tried hbertinism, married hfe,
pohtics, poirer, exile, restoration, the House of Com-
mons, the House of Lords, the city, the country,
foreign travel, study, authorship, metaphysics, infi-
dehty, farming, treason, submission, derehction, — ^but
ennui held him with a firm grasp all the while, and it
was only in the grave that he ceased from troubling.

To an observer who peruses his writings with this
view of his character, many of his expressions of wise
indifference and calm resignation, have even a ludicrous
aspect. The truth breaks forth from all his attempts
at disguise. The philosopher's robes could not hide
the stately wrecks of his pohtical passions. Round the
base of Vesuvius, the lava of former eruptions has so
entirely resolved itself into soil, that vineyards thrive
on the black ruins of the volcano ; and the ancient de-
vastation could hardly be recognised, except for an
occasional dark mass, which, not yet decomposed,
frowns here and there over the surrounding fertility.
Something like this was true of St. John ; he beUeved
his ambition extinct, and attempted to gather round
its ruins all the beauties and splendor of contented
wisdom ; but his nature was still ungovernably fierce ;
and to the last, his passions lowered angrily on the
quiet scenes of his Kterary retirement.

There is no clue to his career, except in supposing

72 BNNUI.

him to have been under the influence of ennui, which
was perpetually terrifying him into the grossest contra-
dictiond. He could not be said to have had any prin-
ciples, or to have belonged to any party ; aiil wherever
he gave in his adhesion, he was sure to become utterly
faithless. He was not less false to the Pretender than
to the King, to Ormond than to Walpole. He was
false to the tones and false to the whigs ; he was false
to his country, for he attempted to involve her in civil
war ; and false to his God, for he combated religion.
He was not swayed by a passion for glory, for he did
not pursue it steadily ; nor by a passion for power,
for he quarrelled with the only man by whose aid he
could have maintained it. He was rather driven to
and fro by a wild restlessness, which led him into gross
contradictions " for his sins. " Nor was his falsehood
without its punishment. What could be more pitifully
degrading, than for one who had been a successful
British minister of state, and had displayed in the face
of Europe his capacity for business and his powers of
eloquence, to accept a seat in the Pretender's cabinet,
where pimps and prostitutes were the prime agents
and counsellors ?

There exists a very pleasant letter jBx)m Pope,
giving an account of Bolingbroke*s rural occupations,
during his country life in England, after the reversal
of his attainder. He insisted on being a farmer ; and
to prove himself so, hired a painter to fill the walls of

ENNUI. 73

his coimtryhouse with rude pictures of the implements
of husbandry. The poet describes him standing be-
tween two haycocks, watching the clouds with all the
apparent anxiety of a husbandman ; but to us it seems
that his mind was at that time no more in the skies,
than when he quoted Anaxagoras, and declared heaven
to be the wise man's home. His heart clung to earth,
and to earthly strife ; and his uneasiness must at last
have become deplorably wretched, since he could con-
sent to leave a piece of patchwork, made up of, the
shreds of other men's skepticism, as his especial legacy
to posterity.

Thus we have endeavored to explain the nature of
that apathy which is worse than positive pain, and
which impels to greater madness than the fiercest
passions, — ^which kings and sages have not been able
to resist, nor wealth nor pleasures to subdue. We
have described ennui as a power for evil rather than
for good; and we infer, that it was an erroneous
theory which classed it among the causes of human
superiority, and the means of himian improvement.
It is the curse pronounced upon voluptuous indolence
and on excessive passion ; on those who decline active
exertion, and thus throw away the privileges of exist-
ence ; and on those who hve a feverish life, in the con-
stant frenzy of stimulated desires. There is but one
cure for it, and that is found in moderation; the exer-
cise of the human faculties in their natural and health-

74 ENNUI.

fill state ; the quiet performance of duty, in meek sub-
mission to the controlling Providence, which has set
bounds to our achievements in setting limits to our
powers. Briefly : our ability is limited by Heaven —
our desires are unlimited, except by ourselves — ennui
can be avoided only by conforming the passions of the
human breast to the conditions of human existence.

THE RULING PASSION IN DEATH.

" Lipe/* says Sir William Temple, " is like wine ;
he, who would drink it pure, must not drain it to the
dregs/' " I do not wish," Byron would say, " to Uve
to become old/' The eicpression of the ancient poet,
" that to die young is a boon of heaven to its favor-
ites," was repeatedly quoted by him with approbation.
The certainty of a speedy release he would call the only
rehef against burdens, which could not be borne, were
they not of very limited duration.

But the general sentiment of mankind declares
length of days to be desirable. After an active and
successful career, the repose of decline is serene and
cheerful. By common consent grey hairs are a crown
of glory; the only object of respect that can never
excite envy. The hour of evening is not necessarily
overcast ; and the aged man, exchanging the pursuits
of ambition for the quiet of observation, the strife of
pubUc discussion for the diflfuse but instructive Ian-

76 BULINO PASSION IN DEATH.

guage of experience, passes to the grave amidst grate-
ful recollections and the tranquil enjoyment of satisfied
desires.

The happy, it is agreed by all, are afraid to con-
template their end; the unhappy, it has been said, look
forward to it as to a release from suflfering. " I think
of death offcen," said a distinguished but dissatisfied
man ; " and I view it as a refuge. There is something
cahn and soothing to me in the thought ; and the only
time that I feel repugnance to it, is on a fine day, in
soUtude, in a beautiful country, when all nature seems
rejoicing in Ught and life."

This is the language of self-delusion. Numerous
as may be the causes for disgust with life, its close is
never contemplated with carelessness. Religion may
elevate the soul to a sublime reUance on a future exist-
ence ; nothing else can do it. The love of honor may
brave danger ; the passion of melancholy may indulge
an aversion to continued being ; philosophy may take
its last rest with composure ; the sense of shame may
conduct to fortitude ; yet they who would disregard
the grave, must turn their thoughts from the consider-
ation of its terrors. It is an impulse of nature to strive
to preserve our being; and the longing cannot be
eradicated. The mind may shun the contemplation
of horrors ; it may fortify itself by refusing to observe
the nearness or the extent of the impending evil ; but
the instinct of life is stubborn ; and he, who looks di-

BULINO PASSION IN DEATH. 77

rectly at its termination and professes indifference, is a
hypocrite, or is self-deceived. He that calls boldly
upon death, is sure to be dismayed on finding him
near. The oldest are never so old, but they desire life
for one day longer ; the child looks to its parent, as if
to discern a glimpse of hope ; even the infant, as it
exhales its breath, springs from its pillow to meet its
mother, as if there were help where there is love.

There is a story told of one of the favorite marshals
of Napoleon, who, in a battle in the south of Germany,
was struck by a cannon ball, and so severely wounded,
that there was no possibility of a respite. Summoning
the surgeon, he ordered his wounds to be dressed ; and,
when aid was declared to be unavailing, the dying officer
clamorously demanded that Napoleon should be sent
for, as one who had power to stop the effusion of
blood, and awe nature itself into submission. Life
expired amidst maledictions and threats heaped upon
the innocent surgeon. This foolish frenzy may have
appeared like blasphemy ; it was but the uncontrolled
outbreak of the instinct of self-preservation, in a rough
and undisciplined mind.

Even in men of strong religious convictions, the
end is not always met with serenity ; and the preacher
and philosopher sometimes express an apprehension,
which cannot be pacified. The celebrated British
moralist, Samuel Johnson, was the instructor of his
age; his works are full of the austere lessons of

78 RULING PASSION IN DEATH.

reflecting wisdom. It might have been supposed,
that religion would have reconciled him to the decree
of Providence ; that philosophy would have taught him
to acquiesce in a necessary issue ; that science would
have inspired him with confidence in the skill of his
medical attendants. And yet it was not so. A sullen
gloom overclouded his faculties ; he could not summon
resolution to tranquillise his emotions; and, in the
absence of his attendants, he gashed himself with
ghastly and debilitating wounds, as if the blind lacer-
ations of his misguided arm could prolong the mo-
ments of an existence, which the best physicians of
London declared to be numbered.

" Is there any thing on earth I can do for you ? "
said Taylor to Wolcott, known as, Peter Pindar, as he
lay on his death-bed. " Give me back my youth ; "
were the last words of the satirical buflFoon.

K Johnson could hope for reUef from self-inflicted
wounds, if the poet could prefer to his friend the
useless prayer for a restoration of youth, we may
readily beUeve what historians relate to us of the end
of Louis XL of Prance ; a monarch, who was not des-
titute of eminent qualities as well as repulsive vices ;
possessing courage, a knowledge of men and of busi-
ness, an indomitable will, a disposition favorable to the
administration of justice among his subjects ; viewrug
impunity in wrong as exclusively a royal prerogative.
Remorse, fear, a consciousness of being detested, dis-

RULING PASSION IN DEATH. 79

gust with life and horror of death, — ^these were the sen-
timents which troubled the sick couch of the absolute
king. The first of his line who bore the epithet of
" the most Christian/' he was so abandoned to egotism,
that he allowed the veins of children to be opened,
and greedily drank their blood ; beUeving with physi-
cians of that day, that it would renovate his youth, or
at least check the decay of nature. The cruelty was
useless. At last, feeling the approach of death to be
certain, he sent for an anchorite from Calabria, since
revered as St. Francis de Paule ; and when the hermit
arrived, the monarch of France entreated him to spare
his life. He threw himself at the feet of the man who
was believed to derive healing virtues from the sanctity
of his character; he begged the intercession 6f his
prayers ; he wept ; he suppUcated ; he hoped that the
voice of a Calabrian monk would reverse the order of
nature, and successfully plead for his respite.

We find the love of life still more strongly acknow-
ledged by an English poet ; who, after describing our
being as the dream of a shadow, " a weak-buUt isth-
mus between two eternities, so frail, that it can sustam
neither wind nor wave," yet avows his preference of a
few days', nay, of a few hours' longer residence upon
earthy to all the fame which poetry can achieve.
Fain would I see that prodigal.
Who his to-morrow would bestow.
For all old Homer's life, e'er since he died, till now !

80 BULINO PASSION IN DSATH.

II.

We do not believe the poet sincere; for one passion
may prevail over another, and in many a breast the
love of fSEune is at times, if not always, the stronger.
But if those who pass their lives in a straggle for
glory may desire the attainment of their object at any
price, the competitors for poUtical power are apt to
cling fiEist to the scene of their rivahy. Lord Castle-
reagh could indeed commit suicide; but it was not
fix)m disgust ; his mind dwelt on the precarious condi-
tion of his own elevation, and the unsuccessful policy in
which he had involved his country. He did not love
death ; he did not contemplate it with indifference ; he
fiEuled to observe its terrors, because his attention was
absorbed by apprehensions which pressed themselves
upon him with unrelenting force.

The ship of the Marquis of Badajoz, viceroy of
Peru, was set on fire by Captam Stayner. The
marchioness, and her daughter, who was betrothed
to the Duke of Medina-Celi, swooned in the flames,
and could not be rescued. The marquis resigned
himelf also to die, rather than survive with the memory
of such horrors. It was not, that he was careless of
life; the natural feeUngs remained unchanged; the
love of grandeur ; the pride of opulence and dominion ;
but he preferred death, because that was out of sight,
and would rescue him from the presence of absorbing
and intolerable sorrows.

RULING PASSION IN DEATH. 81

Madame de Sevigne, in her charmiBg letters,
gives the true sensations of the ambitious man, when
suddenly called to leave the scenes of his efforts
and his triumphs. Rumor, with its wonted credu-
Uty, ascribed to Louvois, the powerful minister of
Louis XIV., the crime of suicide. His death was
sudden, but not by his own arm; he fell a victim,
if not to disease, to the revenge of a woman. In
a night, the most energetic, reckless statesman in
Europe, passionately fond of place, eictending his in-
fluence to every cabinet, and embracing in his views
the destiny of continents, was called away. How
much business was arrested in progress! how many
projects defeated ! how many secrets buried in the
silence of the grave ! Who should disentangle the
interests, which his poUcy had rendered compUcate?
Who should terminate the wars which he had begun ?
Who should follow up the blows which he had aimed?
Well might he have exclaimed to the angel of death,
" Ah, grant me a short reprieve ; spare me, till I can
check the Duke of Savoy ; checkmate the Prince of
Orange ! " — " No ! No ! You shsU not have a single,
single minute." — ^Death is as inexorable to the prayer
of ambition, as to the entreaty of despair. The ruins
of the Palatinate ; the wrongs of the Huguenots were to
be avenged ; and Louvois, like Louis XI. and like thei
rest of mankind, was to learn, that the passion for life,
whether expressed in the language of superstition, of
6

82 RULING PASSION IN DEATH.

abject despondency, or of the desire of continued
power, could not prolong existence for a moment.

III.

But though the love of life may be declared a uni-
versal instinct, it does not follow that death is usually
met with abjectness. It belongs to virtue and to man-
liness to accept the inevitable decree with firmness. It
is often sought voluntarily ; but even then the latent pas-
sion is discernible. A sense of shame, a desire of plun-
der, a hope of emolument, — these, not less than a sense
of duty, are motives sufficient to influence men to defy
all danger ; yet the feeling for self-preservation does not
cease to exert its power. The common hireling soldier
contracts to expose himself to the deadly fire of a
hostile army, whenever his employers may command
it ; he does it, in a controversy of which he knows not
the merits, for a party to which he is essentially indif-
ferent, for purposes which, perhaps, if his mind were
enlightened, he would labor to counteract. The life
of the soldier is a life of contrast ; of labor and idle-
ness ; it is a course of routine, easy to be endured, and
leading only at intervals to exposure. The love of ease,
the certainty of obtaining the means of existence, the
remoteness of peril, conspire to tempt adventurers, and
the armies of Europe have never suffered from any
other limit than the wants of the treasury. But the

RULING PASSION IN DEATH. 83

same soldier would fly precipitately from any hazard
which he had not bargained to encomiter. The mer-
chant will visit the deadhest climates in pursuit of
gain ; he will pass over regions, where the air is known
to be corrupt, and disease to have anchored itself in
the hot, heavy atmosphere. And this he will attempt
repeatedly, and with firmness, in defiance of the crowds
of corpses which he may see ciirried by wagon loads to
the grave-yards. But the same merchant would be
struck by panic and desert his own residence in a more
favored cUme, should it be invaded by epidemic disease.
He who would fearlessly meet the worst forms of a
storm at sea, and take his chance of escaping the fever
as he passed through New Orleans, would shun New
York in the season of the cholera, and shrink from any
danger which was novel and unexpected. The widows
of India ascend the funeral pile with a fortitude which
man could never display; and emulously yield up
their Uves to a barbarous usage, which, if men had been
called upon to endure it, would never have been perpet-
uated. Yet is it to be supposed that these unhappy
victims are indifferent to the charms of existence, or
blind to the terrors of its extinction ? Calmly as they
may lay themselves upon the pyre, they would beg for
mercy, were their execution to be demanded in any
other way ; they would confess their fear, were it not
that love and honor and custom confirm their doom.
No class of men in the regular discharge of duty'

84 RULING PASSION IN DEATH.

incur danger more frequently than the honest physi-
cian. There is no type of malignant maladies with
which he fails to become acquamted ; no hospital so
crowded with contagion, that he dares not walk freely
through its wards. His vocation is among the sick and
the dying ; he is the familiar friend of those who are
sinking imder infectious disease ; and he never shrinks
from the horror of observing it imder all its aspects.
He must do so with equanimity ; as he inhales the
poisoned atmosphere, he must coolly reflect on the
medicines which may mitigate the sufferings that he
cannot remedy. Nay; after death has ensued, he
must search with the dissecting knife for its hidden
cause, if so by multiplying his own perils he may dis-
cover some alleviation for the afflictions of others. And
why is this ? Because the physician is indifferent to
death? Because he is steeled and hardened against
the fear of it ? Because he despises or pretends to
despise it P By no means. It is his especial business
to value life; to cherish the least spark of animated
existence. And the habit of caring for the Uves of his
fellow-men, is far from leading him to an habitual in-
difference to his own. The physician shims every
danger, but such as the glory of his profession com-
mands him to defy.

RULING PASSION IN DEATH. 85

IV.

Thus we are led to explain the anomaly of suicide,
and reconcile the apparent contradiction of a terror
of death, which is yet voluntarily encountered. It
may seem a paradox; but the dread of dying has
itself sometimes prompted suicide, and the man who
seeks to destroy liimself, at the very moment of perpe-
trating his crime betrays the passion for life. Menace
him with death under a different form from that which
he has chosen, and like other men, he will get out of
its way. He will defend himself against the assassin,
though he might be ready to cut his own throat ; he
will, if at sea, and the ship were sinking in a storm,
labor with his whole strength to save it from going
down, even if he had formed the design to leap into the
ocean in the first moment of a calm. Place him in the
van of an army, if is by no means certain that he will
not prove a coward ; tell him the cholera is about to
rage, and he will deluge himself with preventive reme-
dies ; send him to a house visited with yellow fever,
and he will steep himself in vinegar and carry with him
an atmosphere of camphor. It is only under the one
form, which the mind in some insane excitement may
have chosen, that he preserves the desire to leave the
world.

It wiU not be difficult, then, to set a right value on
the declaration of those who profess to regard death

88 RULING PASSION IN DEATH.

least a stone may be placed at the head of his grave,
and demands the erection of splendid mausoleums and
costly tombs for the mistdcen men,

Who by the proofs of death pretend to Uve.

Among the ancients, an opulent man, if^hile yet in
health, would order his own sarcophagus ; and nowa-
days the wealthy sometimes build their own tombs, for
the sake of securing a satisfactory monument. A vain
man, who had done this at a great expense, showed
his motive so plainly, that his neighbors laughed with
the sexton of the parish, who wished that the builder
might not be kept long out of the interest of his
money.

But it is not merely in the decorations of the grave
that vanity is displayed. Saladin, in his last illness,
instead of his usual standard, ordered his shroud to be
uplifted in front of his tent ; and the herald, who himg
out this winding-sheet as a flag, was commanded to
exclaim aloud : "Behold ! this is all which Saladin, the
vanquisher of the East, carries away of all his con-
quests." He was wrong there. He came naked into
the world, and he left it naked. Grave-clothes were a
superfluous luxury, and to the person receiving them,
as barren of comfort as his sceptre or his scymitar.
Saladiii was vain. He sought in dying to contrast the
power he had enjoyed with the feebleness of his con-
dition; to pass from the world in a striking an-

KVLING PASSION IN DEATH. 89

tithesis; to make his death scene an epigram. All
was vanity.

A centmy ago it was the fashion for culprits to
appear on the scaflfold in the dress of dandies. Some
centuries before, it was the privilege of noblemen, if
they merited hanging, to escape the gallows, and
perish on the block. The Syrian priests had foretold
to the emperor HeUogabalus, that he would be reduced
to the necessity of committing suicide ; beUeving them
trae prophets, he kept in readiness silken cords and a
sword of gold. Admirable privilege of the nobility, to
be beheaded instead of hanged ! Enviable prerogative
of imperial dignity, to be strangled with a knot of silk,
or to be assassinated with a golden sword !
Odious ! in woollen ! 'twould a samt provoke,
(Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke.)
No, let* a charming chintz, and Brussels lace
Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face ;
One would not sure be frightful when one's dead,
And — ^Betty — give this cheek a little red.

The example chosen by the poet, extended to ap-
pearances after death; for the presence of the same
weakness in the hoiur of mortality we must look to
the precincts of courts, where folly used to reign by
prescriptive right ; where caprice gives law and pleas-
ures consume life. There you may witness the har-
lot's euthanasia. The French court was at Choisy,
when Madame de Pompadour felt the pangs of a fatal

90 RULING PASSION IN DEATH.

malady. It had been the established etiquette, that none
but princes and persons of royal blood should breathe
their last in Versailles. Proclaim to the gay circles of
Paris, that a thing, new and unheard of, is to be per-
mitted! Announce to the worid, that the rules of
palace propriety and Bourbon decorum are to be
broken ! that the chambers, where vice had fearlessly
Uved and laughed, but never been permitted to expire,
were to admit the novel spectacle of the king's favorite
mistress, struggling with death.

The marchioness questioned the physicians firmly ;
she perceived their hesitation ; she saw the hand that
beckoned her away ; and she determined, says the his-
torian, to depart in the pomp of a queen. Louis XV.,
himself not capable of a strong emotion, was yet
wilKng to concede to his dying friend the consolation
which she coveted, the opportimity to reign till her part-
ing gasp. The courtiers thronged round the death-bed
of a woman, who distributed favors with the last exha-
lations of her breath ; and the king hurried to name to
public offices the persons whom her faltering accents
recommended. Her sick room became a scene of state ;
the princes and grandees still entered to pay their
homage to the woman whose power did not yield to
mortal disease, and were surprised to find her richly
attired. The traces of death in her countenance were
concealed by rouge. She reclined on a splendid
couch; questions of public poUcy were discussed by

RULING PASSION IN DEATH. 91

ministers in her presence; she gloried in holding to
the end the reins of the kingdom in her hands. Even
a sycophant clergy showed respect to the expiring
favorite ; and felt no shame at sanctioning with their
frequent visits the vices of a woman who had entered
the palace only as an adulteress. Having compUed
with the rites of the Roman church, she next sought
the approbation of the philosophers. She Usped no
word of penitence ; she shed no tears of regret. The
curate left her as she was in the agony. "Wait
a moment," said she, "we will leave the house to-
gether."

The dying mistress was worshipped while she
breathed ; hardly was she dead when the scene changed ;
two domestics carried out her body on a hand-barrow
from the palace to her private home. The king stood
at the window, looking at the clouds, as her remains
were carried by. " The Marchioness," said he, " will
have bad weather on her journey."

VI.

The flickering lamp blazes with unusual brightness,
just as it goes out. " The fit gives vigor, as it destroys."
He who has but a moment remaining, is released from
the common motives for dissimulation ; and time, that
lays his hand on every thing else, destroying beauty,
undermining health, and wasting the powers of life.

92 RULING PASSION IN DEATH.

spares the ruling passion, which is connected with the
soul itself. That passion

Sticks to our last sand.
Consistent in our follies and our sins,
Here honest nature ends as she begins.
Napoleon expired during the raging of a whirlwind,
and his last words showed that his thoughts were in
the battle-field. The meritorious author of the Memoir
of Cabot, a work which in accuracy and in extensive
research is very fer superior to most late treatises on
maritime discovery, tells ns, that the discoverer of our
continent, in a hallucination before his death, beUeved
himself again on the ocean, once more steering in quest
of adventure over waves, which knew him as the steed
knows its rider. How many a gentle eye has been
dimmed with tears, as it read the fabled fate of Fergus
Maclvor ! Not inferior to the admirable hero of the
romance, was the Marquis of Montrose, who had
fought for the Stuarts, and fell into the hands of the
Presbyterians. His head and his limbs were ordered
to be severed from his body, and to be hanged on the
Tolbooth in Edinburgh, and in other pubUc towns of
the kingdom. He listened to the sentence with the
pride of loyalty and the fierce anger of a generous de-
fiance. " I wish," he exclaimed, " I had flesh enough
to be sent to every city in Christendom, as a testimony
to the cause for which I suffer.*'

RULING PASSION IN DEATH. 93

But let us take an example of sublimer virtue, such
as we find in a statesman, who Uved without a stain
firom youth to maturity, and displayed an unwavering
consistency to the last ; a hero in civil life, who was in
some degree our own. It becomes America to take
part in rescuing firom imdeserved censure the names
and the memory of victims to the imconquerable love
of republican Uberty.
Vane, young in years, in counsel old : to know

Both spiritual power and civil, what each means,
What severs each, thou'st learned, which few have done.

The bounds of either sword to thee we owe ;
Therefore on thy firm hand religion leans

In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son.
He, that would discern the difference between
magnanimous genius and a shallow wit, may com-
pare this splendid eulogy of Milton with the superficial
levity in the commentary of Warton. It is a fashion
to call Sir Henry Vane a fanatic. And what is fanat-
icism ? True, he was a rigid Calvinist. True, he has
written an obscure book on the mystery of godliness,
of which all that we understand is excellent, and we
may, therefore, infer that the vein of the rest is good.
But does this prove him a fanatic ? If to be the un-
compromising defender of civil and religious hberty be
fanaticism ; if to forgive injuries be fanaticism ; if to
beUeve that the mercy of God extends to all his
creatures, and may reach even the angels of dark-

94 RULING PASSION IN DEATH.

ness, be fanaticism ; if to have earnestly supported
in the Long Parliament the freedom of conscience, —
if to have repeatedly, boldly and zealously interposed
to check the persecution of Roman CathoUcs, — ^if to
have labored that the sect which he least approved,
should enjoy their property in security, and be
safe from all penal enactments for non-conformity, — ^if
in his public life to have pursued a career of firm, con-
scientious, disinterested consistency, never wavering,
never trimming, never changing, — ^if all this be fanat-
icism, -then was Sir Harry Vane a fanatic. Not other-
wise. The people of Massachusetts declined to con-
tinue him in oflSce ; and when his power in England
was great, he requited the Colony with the benefits of
his favoring influence. He resisted the arbitrariness of
Charles I., but would not sit as one of his judges.
He opposed the tyranny of Cromwell. When that
extraordinary man entered the House of Commons
to break up the ParUament, which was about to
pass laws that would have endangered his supremacy.
Vane rebuked him for his purpose of treason. When
the musketeers invaded the hall of debate, and others
were silent. Vane exclaimed to the most despotic man
in Europe, " This is not honest. It is agamst morality
and common honesty." Well might Cromwell, since
his designs were criminal, reply, " Sir Henry Vane !
Sir Henry Vane! The Lord deliver me from Sir
Henry Vane."

RULING PASSION IN DEATH. 96

Though Vane suffered jfrom the usurpation of the
Protector, he lived to see the Restoration. On the
return of the Stuarts, hke Lafeyette among the Bour-
bons, he remained the stanch enemy of tyranny. The
austere patriot, whom Cromwell had feared, struck
terror into the hearts of a faithless and Hcentious court.
It was resolved to destroy him. In a different age or
country the poisoned cup, or the knife of the assassin,
might have been used ; in that season of corrupt in-
fluence, a judicial murder was resolved upon. His death
was a deliberate crime, contrary to the royal promise ;
contrary to the express vote of "the healing par-
liament ; " contrary to law, to equity, to the evidence.
But it suited the designs of a monarch, who feared to
be watched by a statesman of incorruptible elevation
of character. The night before his execution, he en-
joyed the society of his family, as if he had been re-
posing in his own mansion. The next morning he
was beheaded. The least concession would have saved
him. If he had only consented to deny the supremacy
of parliament, the king would have restrained the malig-
nity of his hatred. " Ten thousand deaths for me," ex-
claimed Vane, " ere I will stain the purity of my con-
science."' Historians report that life was dear to him ;
he submitted to his end with the firmness of a patriot,
the serenity of a Christian.
" I give and I devise," (Old EucKo said.
And sighed,) "my lands and tenements to Ned."

96 BULINO PASSION IN DEATH.

Your money, sir ? — " My money, sir I what all ?
Why,— if I must,"— (then wept,) " I give it Paul."
The manor, sir ? — " The manor I hold," he cried,
" Not that, — ^I cannot part with that,"- — and died.
Lorenzo de Medici, upon his death-bed, sent for
Savonarola to receive his confession and grant him
absolution. The severe anchorite questioned the dying
sinner with unsparing rigor. " Do you beheve entirely
in the mercy of God?" — "Yes, I feel it in my
heart." — "Are you truly ready to restore all the
possessions and estates which you have unjustly ac-
quired ? " — ^The dying Duke hesitated ; he counted up
in his mind the sums which he had hoarded ; delusion
whispered that nearly all had been so honestly gained,
that the sternest censor would strike but Uttle from his
opulence. The pains of hell were threatened if he
denied ; and he gathered courage to reply, that he was
ready to make restitution. Once more the unyielding
priest resumed his inquisition. " Will you resign the
sovereignty of Florence, and restore the democracy of
the repubUc ? " Lorenzo, like Macbeth, had acquired
a crown ; but, unlike Macbeth, he saw sons of his own
about to become his successors. He gloried in the
hope of being the father of princes, the founder of a
line of hereditary sovereigns. Should he crush this
brilhant expectation, and tremble at the wild words
of a visionary? Should he who had reigned as a
monarch, stoop to die as a merchant ? No ! though

RULING PASSION IN DEATH. 97

hell itself were opening beneath his bed. " Not that !
I cannot part with that." Savonarola left his bedside
with indignation, and Lorenzo died without shrift.
And you brave Cobham, to the latest breath,
Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death,
Such in those moments as in all the past, —
" Oh ! save my country, Heaven ! " shall be your last.
Like this was the exclamation of the patriot
Quincy, whose virtues have been fitly commemorated
by the pious reverence of his son. The celebrated
Admiral Blake breathed his last as he came in sight
of England, happy in at least descrying the land, of
which he had advanced the glory by his brilliant
victories. Quincy died as he approached the coast of
Massachusetts. He loved his fEimily; but at that
moment he gave his whole soul to the cause of free-
dom. "Oh that I might Hve," — ^it was his dying
wish, — " to render to my country one last service,"

VII.

The coward Ms panic-stricken ; the superstitious
man dies with visions of terror floating before his
fancy. It has even happened that a man has been
in such dread of eternal woe, as to cut his throat in his
despair. The phenomenon seems strange ; but the fact
is unquestionable. The giddy, that are near a preci-
pice, totter towards the brink which they would shun.
Every body remembers the atheism and bald sensuaUly

98 RULING PASSION IN DEATH.

of the septuagenarian Alexander VI. ; and the name
of his natural son, Caesar Borgia, is a proverb, as a
synonym for the most vicious selfishness. Let one
tale, of which Macchiavelli attests the truth, set forth the
deep baseness of a cowardly nature. Borgia had, by
the most solemn oaths, induced the Duke of Gravina,
OUverotto, Vitellozzo VitelU, and another, to meet him
in Senigaglia, for the purpose of forming a treaty, and
then issued the order for the massacre of OUverotto
and Vitelli. Can it be bdieved? Vitelli, as he
expired, begged of the infamous Borgia, his assassin,
to obtain of Alexander a dispensation for his omis-
sions,, a release from purgatory.

The death-bed of Cromwell himself was not free
from superstition. When near his end, he asked if the
elect could never fall. " Never," repUed Godwin the
preacher. "Then am I safe," said the man whose
last years had been stained by cruelty and tyranny ;
" for I am sure I was once in a state of grace."

Ximenes languished from disappointment at the
loss of power and the want of royal favor. A smile
from Louis would have cheered the death-bed of
Racine.

In a brave mind the love of honor endures to the
last. "Don't give up the ship," cried Lawrence, as
his life-blood was flowing in torrents. Abimelech
groaned that he fell ignobly by the hand of a woman.
We have ever admired the gallant death of Sir Richard

RULING PASSION IN DEATH. 99

Grenville, who, in a single ship, encountered a nu-
merous fleet ; and when mortally wounded, husbanded
his strength, till he could summon his victors to bear
testimony to his courage and his patriotism. " Here
die I, Richard Grenville, with a joyous and quiet mind,
for that I have ended my life as a true soldier ought to
do, fighting for his country, queen, religion and honor."
The pubhc has been instructed through the press
in the details of the treason of Benedict Arnold, by an
inquirer, who has compassed earth and sea in search of
historic truth, and has merited the applause of his
country, not less for candor and judgment, than for
diligence and ability. The victim of the intrigue was
Andre. The mind of the young soldier revolted at the
service of treachery in which he had become involved,
and holding a stain upon honor to be worse than the
forfeiture of life, he shuddered at the sight of the gal-
lows, but not at the thought of dying. He felt the
same sentiment which made death welcome to Nelson
and to Wolfe, to whom it came with glory and victory
for its companions ; but for Andre, the keen sense of
honor added bitterness to the cup of affliction, by
exciting fear lest the world should take the manner of
his execution as evidence of merited opprobrium.

vni.

Finally : he who has a good conscience and aweU
balanced mind meets death with calnmess, resignation.

100 RULING PASSION IN DEATH.

and hope. Saint Louis died among the ruins of
Carthage ; a Christian king, laboring in vain to expel
the reUgion of Mahomet from the spot where Dido
had planted the gods of Syria. " My friends," said
he, " I have finished my course. Do not mourn for
me. It is natural that I, as your chief and leader,
should go before you. . You must follow me. Keep
yourselves in readiness for the journey." Then giving
bis son his blessing and the best advice, he received
the sacrament, closed his eyes, and died, as he was re-
peating from the Psalms, " I will come into thy house ;
I will worship in thy holy temple."

The curate of St. Sulpice asked the confessor who
had shrived Montesquieu on his death-bed, if the peni-
tent had given satisfaction. "Yes," replied father
Roust, " like a man of genius." The curate was dis-
pleased ; unwilling to leave the dying man a moment
of tranquillity, he addressed him, " Sir, are you truly
conscious of the greatness of Grod?" "Yes," said
the departing philosopher, "and of the littleness of
man."

How calm were the last moments of Cuvier !
Benevolence of feeling and self-possession difiused
serenity round the hour of his passing away. Con-
fident that the hand of death was upon him, he yet
submitted to the application of remedies, that he might
gratify his more hopeful friends. They had recourse
to leeches ; and with deUghtful simpUcity the great

RULING PASSION IN DEATH. 101

naturalist observed, it was he who had discovered that
leeches possess red blood. The discovery, which he
made in his youth, had been communicated to the pub«-
lie in the memoir that first gained him celebrity. The
thoughts of the dying naturalist recurred to the
scenes of his early life, to the coast of Normandy,
where, in the soUtude of conscious genius, he had
roamed by the side of the ocean, and achieved
fame by observing the wonders of animal life
which are nourished in its depths. He ren^embered
his years of poverty, the sullen rejection which his first
claims for advancement had received, and all the
vicissitudes through which he had been led to the
highest distinctions in science. The son of the
Wirtemberg soldier, of too feeble a frame to em-
brace the profession of his father, had found his way
to the secrets of nature. The man who, in his own
province, had been refused the means of becoming the
village pastor of an ignorant peasantry, had succeeded
in charming the most polished circles of Paris by the
clearness of his descriptions, and commanding the
attention of the Deputies of France by the grace
and fiuency of his elocution. And now he was
calmly predicting his departure; his respiration be-
came rapid ; and his head fell as if he were in med-
itation. Thus his soul passed to its Creator without a
struggle. "Those who entered afterwards would
have thought that the noble old man, seated in his

10? RULING PASSION IN DEATH.

arm-chair by the fire-place, was asleep; and would
have walked softly across the room for fear of dis-
turbing him." Heaven had but " recalled its own."

The death of Haller himself was equally tranquil.
When its hour approached, he watched the ebbing of
life and continued to observe the beating of his pulse
till sensation was gone.

A tranquil death becomes the man of science, or
the scholar. He should cultivate letters to the last
moment of life; he should resign pubUc honors, as
calmly as one would take off a domino on returning
from a mask. He should listen to the signal for his
departure, not with exultation, and not with indiffer-
ence. Respecting the dread solenmity of the change,
and reposing in hope on the bosom of death, he should
pass, without boldness and without fear, from the
struggles of inquiry to the certainty of knowledge,
from a world of doubt to a world of truth.

STUDIES IN GERMAN LITERATURE.

GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS.
I.

National literature varies with national char- «
acter. It represents the aspect under which the world
is contemplated, and shows the coloring imparted by
climate, government, and society. The Muse, with
her divine inventions, may shape the character of a
people after a favorite pattern of ideal excellence; but
the beauty, concentrated in the model, must have
already existed in surrounding realities, which imagi-
nation only combines and vivifies. The hearts of the
many will not be moved, except the appeal be made
to passions which are already strong, and gratify
tastes and awaken sympathies which are already
formed.

The Uterature of a nation, therefore, commends it-
self to the attention of enlightened curiosity, even inde-
pendently of its intrinsic merits, from the knowledge it »
sheds on the nature of man. Genius remains always

104 GERMAN LITERATURE.

the same high gift. But how diflferently has it
ripened under the grateful splendor of an Italian sky,
and in the chilling climate of the North ! at the court
of Louis, and on the soil of Germany ! at Edinburgh
and Ispahan ! at Vienna and Washington ! And this
diversity gives reUef to the productions of each nation,

\ and constitutes their interchange a reciprocity of bene-
fits and gratifications. We censure the extravagant
creations of oriental fancy, and yet the East has given
to the West more than it has received. It has peopled
the air with sylphs, and filled the world of man with
magic agencies ; it contributed many a strange tale to
be wrought into beautiful shape by the more careful
European artist. In the Fairy Queen, to glance only
at EngUsh Uterature, something of its manner was
blended with Spenser's sweetness and melancholy;
and it adds vivacity to the playful satire of Pope. The
story of the Merchant of Venice is of Eastern origin ;
and the Tempest and the Midsummer Night's Dream
borrow their charms from the brilhant legends of the
same clime. Thus it is, that while learning blesses
its possessors, the stores which it collects and dispenses,
contribute to the general instruction and amusement.

A universal interest and extended culture favor not
the variety of Kterary productions only, but also the

' culture of taste. They are necessary to the acquisition
of just discrimination, and the quick perception and
ready acknowledgment of merit. There may be an

GENEEAL CHAEACTERISTIC8. 106

intuitive perception of excellence, but it is only from
large comparisons that we arrive at safe inferences.
The mind that takes a wide range, is willing to observe
the manner in which genius contemplates nature under
every sky and in every condition of life ; it gains the
power of recognising beauty of invention, by what-
ever disguise 'the pubUc fashions of place and time
may have hid its lustre.

The freedom capable of discerning beauty in
writing, independent of local peculiarities, is a vic-
tory over prejudice and narrowness. Its reward is
vast and immediate, and consists in the power of
receiving enjoyment from every exhibition of genius.
Perhaps no people offers in its literature more nume-
rous or more opposite causes of gratification than the
Grermans. Others may surpass them in melody of
verse, or exact and measured elegance ; but never
before did the world behold a nation mature, in a
century, a Uterature so diversified in its character,
marked by so much learning and so much Uberality,
so full of thought and imagination, so distinguished
alike for philosophical reasoning, and the boldest
expression of enthusiastic feeling.

The aspect of nature is reflected in German liter-
ature. In Italy, the Apennines, for the most part
scantily wooded, or even entirely naked, rise in beau-
tiftd and successive ranges ; the clear atmosphere lends
to them distinct outlines, and shows to perfect advan-

106 OEBMAN LITERATURE.

tage the intermingling of light and shade on the suc-
cession of hills and valleys ; and the spectator willingly
lends an ear to the fables of antiquity. It seems no
unnatural idea, that the cheerful brooks and the invi-
ting woods should have joyous nymphs and deities for
their guardians. In Germany, the mountains are
carefully kept covered with the forest, whose sombre
foliage heightens their aspect of gloom; or the thin
branches of the pines make the rugged cliffs appear
still more bleak and desolate ; the mists often gather
among the ridges, or wrap the highest peaks in clouds ;
the productions of the soil, at any considerable eleva-
tion, mark an inhospitable zone, and indicate the
abject poverty of the inhabitants; and so a rude super-
stition has assigned to these northern fastnesses the
homes of wizards and spectres ; the theatre of noctur-
nal incantations ; the general muster-ground of all the
motley and fiendish creations of a barbarous fancy.
The history of Germany is unique, and has had
' its influence on its poets. In many parts of the coun-
try, especially along the Rhine and the Neckar, and on
the heights which command the rich valleys of central
Germany, the genius of the middle ages is still visibly
hovering round

" Those gray but leafy walls, where ruin greenly dwells."
There you have the battlements and the massive watch-
towers of the baronial castles, the dungeons and sub-
terraneous passages, the banqueting halls and the

GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS. 107

chapels, which are so often introduced into romance,
and which in themselves are far more touching in their
decay, than in the descriptions of any writer of fiction.
You may inspect the very chambers of the secret
tribunal, its instruments of torture, and its places of
execution; or listen to the simple and pure legends
which religious tradition has connected with the scenes
of greatest loveliness. Of these mediaeval relics, enough
remains to give clear conceptions of the manners
of those times, in which the fierceness of chivalrous
courage was tempered by the influence of the Churchy
and the harshness of the haughty knight contrasted
with the .impressive piety and graceful gentleness of
woman. When we are admitted to the inner apart-
ments and see, as it were, the daily footsteps of their
inhabitants, we are brought nearer to the incidents of
feudal power ; the anxious lady of the castle is still im-
patiently hearkening for the return of her lord ; the
courtyard yet rings with the clattering of arms, the
neighing of steeds, and the loud merriment of a numer-
ous and idle retinue ; the wine still flows fireely at the
hospitable but intemperate banquet ; the priest chastens
the fierceness of valor with mercy, absolves the timid
soul from the guilt of sin, and at the altar sanctifies to
youthful prowess the possession of beauty, whose affec-
tion was won by courage in the field.

108 OERMAN LITERATURE.

II.

The political organization of Germany, after many
changes, continues to be a strange anomaly. Its soil,
occupying the very heart of Europe, has been the
general battle-field for contending nations, while its
princely families have for centuries famished wives to
more than half the sovereigns of Europe. Its climate
and soil vary, as you pass from the barren sands, cold
seasons, and level regions of the North, to the mag-
nificence of the country watered by the Danube, or the
genial nuldness and abundance that crown the valley
of the Khine. Had its hardy population been bound
together under one master, the liberty of the old world
' would have been at their mercy. But even the ap-
pearance of an executive union was destined to disap-
pear in the revolutionary convulsions of Europe. The
line of Roman emperors has ceased, and the phantom
of a crown is worn no longer. Letters are now the
great, and we might almost say, the only eflScient
bond for the German people. They have a common
language, and a common Uterature ; in other respects,
their governments are severally nearly as independent
as those of the Italian States. The German league
forms Uttle beside a vain show. The interests of the
several states are heterogeneous, and the connection
but nominal ; while Goethe is the man of the whole
nation, a favorite at Vienna, and on the left bank of

GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS. 109

the Rhine. A strange condition of public existence !
where there are no topics relating to the whole com-
monwealth, to call forth an undivided expression of
feeling ; and yet where works of genius in literature
are clahned by a population of more than forty millions.

The inhabitants of Germany are every where distin-
guished for kindliness and hospitality. Here are the
strongholds of Protestantism ; and here too, Roman
Catholics worship in sincerity, and delight in learning ;
while religion discards alike bigotry and superstition.
That the fine arts are held in high repute, is attested
by the enthusiasm which the Gallery of Dresden con-
tinues to excite. Music is so universally cultivated,
that there is no considerable town where admirable
concerts may not be heard in private circles ; nor is
aflfection confined to Mozart and native composers ;
sometimes the touching strains of the elder artists are
revived; of Scarlatti, who composed and played the
harp till almost seventy ; but still more of Palestrina,
whose ashes were deemed worthy of a place in St.
Peter's,— ^he Raphael of music, than whom no one has
better known how to express the spirit of religion by
the harmony of sounds.

The tendency of the wide diffusion of culture to
promote intellectual freedom, is increased by the fact,
that in the Northern and Centrdl parts of Germany
there is but one very large city ; while Vienna is too
near the confines of the ancient Empire to form a cen-

110 GERMAN LITERATURE.

tre for the mind of the nation. Indeed, an impulse
greater than any from Vienna, has been given by
' Weimar, a city not so large, and certainly not so
flourishing as was the town of Providence, or Cincinnati,
in 1827. The public, that invisible, most powerful, im-
partial personification of the enlightened opinion and
authority of a nation, is in Germany, as in the United
States, to be sought for every where. In every village,
cultivated minds are unfettered by the decisions of a
metropolis, and opinions are freely given and boldly
canvassed. The feite of a book published in France, is
decided at Paris ; but in Grermany, the highest honors
in letters, as with us the presidential dignity, are to be
won only by obtaining the free suffrages of remote, in-
dependent, and equal districts.

The arrangements of the bookselling interest are
analogous. Leipzig is the great centre of this busi-
ness ; in Leipzig, every book, be it published where it
may, is advertised and kept regularly for sale. Nothing
is so sure of a good reception, as to pretend to make
its way by itself, independent of the usual mode ; and
nothing so small or so mean, as to be overlooked. So
perfect is the system, you may receive of the smallest
bookseller, in the smallest town that has a bookseller,
any work published in any part of the countiy, as
surely, as soon, and on as good terms, as if you had
applied to the house most largely engaged in the
trade. Nor is it unworthy of remark, that the

GENEBAL CHARACTERISTICS. Ill

common style of printing is a correct, but not an
expensive one.

III.

There is the more advantage in economical arrange-
ments for distributing books through Germany, as »
learning is there seldom attended by wealth and inde-
pendence. German Uterature is the result of the
moral energy of its own votaries. It was fostered
by no Maecenas ; it was cherished by no Augustus ; •
it was not rocked and dandled into maturity, but
struggled against opposition, overcame indifference,
and triumphed over contempt. Even Leibnitz, at
comparatively a recent day, had the weakness not to
be proud of his countrymen ; and Frederic of Prus-
sia could not perceive the germs of that genius, which
in his last years was to bloom so abundantly. It
was the mass of the nation that wrought out the
intellectual salvation of the country; and hence it
comes, that men of letters in Germany, emerging from
the middling class, have had their sympathies with the
people, and have watched for its Uberties. To the
aristocracy, Germany owes little of its intellectual eleva- '
tion.

Of this it is proudly conscious. It is not of the
slightest moment, whether the presence of the learned and
of those endowed with creative genius is desired among
the possessors of poUtical or hereditary rank. Who

112 GERMAN UTE&ATUfiS.

asks if Homer kept company with kings? Who is
troubled because Milton would not, or could not go to
court? An ingenious scholar of the North, whose
merits are above our praise, observes, as a favorable
characteristic of our time, that authors '' constitute the
chosen ornaments of society." It may be well for the
classes which ore privileged by fortune, to associate to
themselves the eloquent who can sway pubUc opinion,
or the masters of science who can produce new re-
sources of power or wealth. But the willing parasite
ranks infinitely beneath the stem recluse, whose mind,
self-balanced, finds repose in its own strength. Men
of letters belong essentially to the laboring class ; they
are links in the chain which binds together the widely
diversified elements of society. They rise fi-om the
general mass and should not separate fi'om it. All the
deUght of vanity in coimting the powerful, the wealthy
or the fashionable as friends, should never induce them
to resign their right to equality on the field of general
exertion, — ^foimded, as their claim is, on the gloiy of
inspiring the thoughts, and moulding the moral exist-
ence of contemporary millions. Such is the sentiment
of the German universities, where a want of manliness
is not forgiven. A professor had received a diploma of
nobility. " Ah," said his colleague, the mathematician
Kastner, on the arrival of the parchment ; " the fellow
rises on the ruins of his like ; one foolish sheep builds
his greatness on the skin of another."

OENEEAL CHABACTERI8TICS. 113

It would be melancholy to follow the Uves of emi-
nent German scholars through their trials in the com-
mencement of their career, were it not that we may
almost always discern the hopeful serenity proceeding
from the conscious exercise of exalted intellect. Many of
them' provided at first for their subsistence, by filling
subordinate stations in schools ; to many the imiversities
offered a temporary theatre, or a scene of honor and
exertion for life. The admirable constitution of the "
German imiversities, rendered it the more easy to ap-
pear there in the capacity of public instructor. In
them the care of the several branches of science is
not exclusively intrusted to any one. The regular
professor is liable to find competitors in any, whose
predilections or whose wants may lead them to instruct
in the same department. The few establishments
where the system of restramt prevails, have had Uttle
or no share in the prosperity, vigorous industry, and
sound and impartial learning, for which the German
is distinguished. According to its theoiy the busi-
ness of teaching should be as free as with us the prac-
tice of law. To insure the co-operation of some one
eminent man in each department, a regular professor
is appointed, with a very moderate salary, which ope-
rates only as a bounty, to influence his choice of
abode. His income depends on his industry and
success, and is as unlimited as his talents and reputa-
tion. Beside this, any man, who can offer evidence of
8

114 GERMAN LITERATURE.

his competency, by an examination, a public disputa-
tion, and a printed dissertation, that may serve as a
specimen of his erudition, is allowed to give public or
private lessons, under the sanction of the university,
with every facility to be derived from the use of its
fixtures, and with all the advantage of being fiedrly in
the list of equal competition.

Here, mark the difference in our institutions.
With us all instruction in the imiversities is monop-
olized; whether the professorship derives its income
from fees paid by the students, or endovnnents, the
care of each branch of knowledge is entirely in the
hands of the person appointed ; he has no competitor.
In Germany the professor has his salary ; the right
to teach, and to gain emoluments from teaching, he
shares with aU who have the requisite qualifications.
There are not a few men in America now, who have
no connection with any of our pubUc institutions, and
who could not, of their own accord alone, enter on the
career of instruction in them, who yet have a right, that
would not be disputed, of teaching the sciences public-
ly, and at will, in any one of the leading German uni-
versities. It may be thought, that this Uberty of
teaching is fruitfiil of endless strife and undignified
jealousies. Far from it. It makes the public teachers
industrious and faithful, for otherwise they would soon
be out of employment ; and it is no more productive
of evil, than the custom among us, of a young lawyer

GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS. 115

or physician attempting to practise his profession in
any place where he thinks an opportunity offers. The
estabUshed professors find nothing grievous in the
arrangement. Now and then, it is true, a professor
who remams behind the age, or has Uttle talent as a
teacher, is doomed to see his lecture-room vacant, and
offer instruction which no one cares to receive. And
so it ought to be. But a faithful man derives such an
advantage from his regular appointment, that to him
his youthful competitors are but as followers and coad-
jutors, who give assistance to the students in those
things for which he has neither time nor indination.
A competitor of equal years and standing is unknown,
except as a professor likewise regularly established;
for talent and learning are not such every-day quaUties
as to be left unsought for. When a professor dies, or
is incapacitated by age, the pubUc has the benefit of being
able to select a successor from the crowd of young and
experienced aspirants. And if, which will sometimes
happen, the regular professor grows idle, the science
does not droop ; the want of instruction calls forth per-
sons competent to give it; and the pubUc is not a
great loser by any misappropriations, since the receipts
of a teacher fall off with the decline of his own exertions.
Nor let it be supposed that the imiversities, which
have had so wide an influence on the culture of man-
kind, are all of them hallowed by age. Gottingen is
but of the last century, though it has already gathered

116 GERMAN LipRATURE.

the most useful library in the world. The foundation
of the University of Berlin belongs to the present cen-
tury ; and the number of its students has, at times,
been the largest on the continent. Within a year of the
foundation of a university at Mimich, in 1826, its success
was assured. But how were those foundations laid ?
Not by building halls, but by collecting together learned
f men, and opening to them a career of utility, honor,
and emolument. Honos etpramia / Where these are
dispensed freely, learning will thrive; industry, un-
checked in its exertions, and unlimited in its rewards,
will in this, as in every thing else, lead to brilliant results.

It would not be without interest to glance at the
condition of our country, and form an estimate of
the character of men who would become pnbUc in-
structors, if our institutions were put on a similar
liberal footing ; the relative number of those, who, in
this country and in Grermany, are desirous of a public
education ; the influence of the respective govern-
ments ; the UberaHty of the community. But the sub-
ject is too important to be treated incidentally ; and
we will only remark, that if our universities languish,
the cause does not lie in the apathy of the pubUc.

The influence of the Grerman universities is incalcu-
lable. They fill the offices of state with men of cul-
ture ; and there is hardly a village where they have not
domesticated learning. They give an earnest and
speculative character to the common mind; render

GENERAL CHABACTEBI8TICS. 117

the public capable of appreciating eminent merit, and
impress even on the works of fiction, traces of an
intimate acquaintance with other ages and nations. A
union of strength of imagination with the power of
various acquisition, is characteristic of German genius.

IV.

Letters are in Germany a career to which men are
regularly educated. The profession is, moreover, a
thronged one ; of course, moderate merit is abundant,
and distinction difficult. There are few instances of
scholars who have .at once risen to eminence. The first
years on entering life are generally years of hardship
and struggle ; but where talent is joined to industry,
notoriety is at last gained, and a moderate competence
secured. There is nothing in our country more nearly
analogous to this state of things, than the condition
of the profession of law. The road of emulation is so
crowded, that it is unsafe to rest upon honors already
acquired; persevering diligence is necessary to pre-
serve even a favorite from neglect. German scholars
understand that there is much hard work to be done,
requiring time and habitual toil, from day to day;
letters are not to be the pastime of a dull afternoon —
the business over which a man may loll in an easy
chair — ^the fashionable topic for a half hour's conver-
sation in the evening ; they are considered, as they

118 GERMAN LITEBATUEE.

ought to be, a most honorable and most laborious
occupation for life.

To these habits of industry we must attribute the
profoundness and the universality which characterize
t German Uterature. In abnost every department of
human knowledge, it can show some one treatise,
which may be said to exhaust the subject ; containing
not the views of the author merely, but a condensed
sketch of all that has been written upon the matter in
discussion.

There is one branch of speculative learning, requir-
ing rare sagacity and deliberation; and cultivated but
little except in Germany. It is called the Higher
* Criticism, and begins its office where historical criti-
cism ends. Thus, as to the poems of Homer, aU the
evidence which we possess, enables us only to establish
^v^ the essential identity of our printed copies with the

edition collated and published by the Alexandrian
scholars. But what changes may have taken place in
the verse, previous to that period ? What proof have
we that the Alexandrian scholars had an uncomipted
text? The same kind of questions has been raised
in theological philology. It is obvious, that to ask
them of the rash, is only to throw open the floodgates
of Uterary doubt. And in fact, there has been left
hardly one eminent author of antiquity, who has not
been cheated out of part of his fame. Sophocles is
made to give up one of his plays ; Plato half his dia-

GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS. 119

logues ; Anacreon almost all his odes ; and the Iliad
and the Odyssey are declared to be full of interpola-
tions, the shreds and rags of audacious sophists,
patched upon the simple and majestic robes of Ho-
mer. The too great prevalence of this dangerous
method has given to a branch of science an air of
skepticism, which was not the object of the writers,
and which by no means exists in the people.

The same spirit of expansive inquiry, which does
the business of research so faithfully, has encouraged a
universal interest in literary productions. The great
works of other countries and ages are not merely
known to the man of letters, but are for the most part
nationalized in translations which give the very form
and sentiments, the ideas and the tone of the origmal.
We should mention Wolf's German translation of the
Clouds of Aristophanes, and William von Humboldt's
of the Agamemnon of iEschylus, as admirable speci-
mens of this kind of work, of which Voss may be
called the inventor. Where such fidelity is required,
the style was at first harsh; but long and frequent
exercise, and unceasing efforts, have given such flex-
ibihty, copiousness, and variety to the German lan-
guage, that many of the greatest poets of all times, not
the ancients only, but Calderon and Shakspeare, Tasso,
Ariosto, and Dante, are reproduced in their own
measures and their own slyle, and have become
fiuniliar topics of interest to all who know how to

120 GERMAN LITERATURE.

beguile an hour with a book. So numerous are the
translations from the Latin and Greek, that a work in
two large volumes was required for their enumeration.
All good versions meet with a favorable reception.
On the theatres, Romeo and Jdiiet, or the Merchant
of Venice, of the English dramatist, will draw as large
a house, and gratify it as much, as the Wallenstein, or
the Mary Stuart of Schiller. Calderon is played as
often as Goethe; and even a comedy of Terence is
sometimes represented.

This enlarged curiosity increases in an unparalleled
manner the amount of knowledge in circulation, and
liberates the general mind from prejudice, without
impairing the origmality of German inventive literature.
The nation has its own character, which is preserved
inviolate, though it is strengthened and fructified by
additions from many sources.

Independence is a characteristic of German scho-
lars. Controversy is carried on with the utmost free-
dom. Where truth is the object, it is not deemed
tolerable, that social considerations should check a
free expression of thought. Hence there is a great
collision of opinions, as with us in the poUtical world,
and every one comes finally to be examined. It is not
esteemed unseemly for men, who reside in the same
place, or are employed at the same university, to advo-
cate opposite views ; and the habit of conducting Ut-
erary researches in personal seclusion, encourages the

GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS. 121

scholar to unbiased inquiry and boldness of utterance.
Passing their time in retirement and application, the
men of letters have Uttle commimication with each
other, or the world, but by their writings. Separated
from society by continual industry, while they yet hold
close intercourse with the pubUc through the press, in-
timate relations of friendship, and on the other hand,
implacable hostilities, may grow up between those who
have never heard the sound of each other's voice.

The continuance of solitary study leads finally to a
state of high mental excitement. The scholar, within
the walls of his closet, feels the impulse of passionate mo-
tives, the rush of rapid thought, and the charms of
crowded existence. He represents to himself not a
distinct, visible, and well-known audience, but a vast
and undefined mass of intelligence and numbers, an as-
semblage unlimited in its possible extent, and deriving
new dignity from the awful mystery in which it is en-
veloped. The German scholar writes under the con-
viction that his work will fall under the eyes of men
competent to judge, and his usual tranquillity and
regularity make him the more susceptible of this kind
of encouragement.

The remoteness in which the German student lives
from ordinary interruptions, favors devotedness to a
single object. The instances are numerous, of men
who have consecrated the best part of their Uves to one
engrossing pursuit. The science which thus engages

122 GERMAN LITERATURE.

the mind for years, becomes ever present to their
thoughts, and is treated with UveUness as well as learn-
ing. There are some who can describe to you the an-
tiquities of Egypt, or the ruins of Persepolis, who may
hardly know there are republicans among the Andes ;
others have a better understanding of the springs that
directed the Peloponnesian war, than the French revo-
lution. Subjects of antiquity are treated as though
they were present to the senses ; and the lecturer on
Greece transfers himself and all his interests, for the
time, to the scenes which he describes. The historian
of nature, too, Uves in his theme ; he carries his enthu-
siasm into the details of physiology, and explains with
animation the wonders of the mineral kingdom ; or, if
his topic be the fossil remains of the former creation, he
seems abnost to throw his mind back into that wonder-
ful state of things, when plastic power deUghted in
monstrous forms, when trees dropped amber, and in-
sects were enshrined in transparent tombs.

With much that is excellent, much extravagance
has been published in Germany, where, in the first ten
years of this century, there were more than ten thou-
sand living authors. Sentiments bold and paradoxical,
inventions wild and wonderful, sometimes for a season
engage the attention, which nothing but genius and
truth can hold fast. But among so many good intel-
lects, error cannot proceed far without opposition, nor
folly without exposure. The nation does not stand

GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS. 123

answerable for the aberrations of any of its citizens,
since it is the first to censure their perversity.

The facihty of receiving enjoyment from every
exhibition of genius, is an advantage of high value.
Every man has, indeed, the right to choose his own
guides to the summit of Olympus ; but we question
the soimdness of those who deny that there are more
ways than one. Such an opinion could be explamed,
only as the result of a narrowness that willingly
wears the shackles of prejudice. We all admire the
loveliness of our own landspape ; but shall we
have no susceptibihty to other charms P Shall Switz-
erland, where the glaciers enter the fertile valley,
and vnnter and summer are seen side by side,
have no power to please us ? Or a scene beneath a
southern sky, where the pahn-trees lift their heads in
slender magnificence, the forests gUtter with the splen-
dor of variegated plumage, and earth is gay with all
the colors that gain their deep tints from a tropical
sun ? ( The eye that communes with nature and under-
stands it, discerns beauty in all its forms. And shall
we, who are certainly not incurious as to the concerns
of all nations, be indifferent to foreign letters? Is
there no happy moment of tranquillity in which learn-
ing may raise her head fearlessly and be respected, and
the pursuits of contemplative life be cheered by the
free expression of general approbation, and quickened
into excellence by the benignity of an attentive nation?

124 GERMAN UTEBATUBB.

We oannot as yet be said to have a national literature ;
but we already have the promise of one, and the first
firuits ; as the Uterary character of the country is devel-
oped, it should resemble our political institutions in
Kberality, and welcome excellence fit)m ev^ quarter
of the world.

THE KEVP^AL OP QSBMAK UTE&ATUBB.

The first use of the German as a written language,
is full of interest for the antiquary ; but, like the re-
searches into the earliest Anglo-Saxon literature, can
hardly daim universal attention. No reUc has come
down to us, of the bards of whom Tacitus makes men-
tion. The Edda furnishes but a very doubtful means
of ascertaining what kind of poetry was in vogue in the
days of Herman ; nor do any existing documents
explain the changes produced in popular poetiy and
habits of thought by the introduction of Christiani^.
Religious hymns were circulated by the monks ; and
one considerable poem, the life of St. Anno, by an
unknown author, will long be preserved, not for its
merit, but as a curious literary production.

The Suabian period, in which the romance of
chivaliy prevailed, forms the next stage in the prepress
rf German poetry. From the twelfth to the fourteenth
century, at least two hundred candidates for hme may

ITS PEOGRBSS TILL 1770. 125

be counted. There are not wanting critics, who per-
suade themselves that Homer hardly deserves higher
esteem than the poets of love and the singers of the
Nibelungs. But these derive their chief interest from
the age in which they were produced. The lyric
pieces of the period, which ring sweet and harmonious
chimes on the vernal season, the tender passion, and
devotedness to woman, were mere lispings in the ac-
cents of the Proven9al muse.

In the fourteenth century, the ron^gitic poetry
degenerated ; and the rhymes of the master workmen
among the several corporations of mechanics became
alli^t Germany, for three centuries, could exhibit in
proof of poetic activity. The knights and warriors had
had their day ; it seemed but just, that that of the
tradesmen should dawn. Miracles in literature are
rare ; the iaterminable strains of the rhyming artisans
may have beguiled their wanderings as apprentices, or
glorified their respective cities, or professions ; but they
contain little of the spirit of poetry.

Hans Sachs was a wonder in one sense of the word.
He wrote more rhymes than any person of whom Uterary
history makes mention, with the single exception of
Lope de Vega. Of comedies and tragedies, he com-
posed two hundred and eight ; his works, collectively,
consist of six thousand and forty-eight pieces ; the se-
lections of his choicest productions fill three foUo vol-
umes ; and he sustained withal the character of a

126 GERMAN LITERATURE.

reputable citizen and good shoemaker. Poets may
find tongues in trees and wisdom in stones; the
materials for philosophic verse in the tale of a wagon-
er, or the discourse of a pedler ; may illustrate from
the unlettered hinds of a village all the vices and pas-
sions which can disturb mankind; but it would be
hard to discern beauty in a play, for example, where
God is introduced as catechising Abel and his play-
fellows, and the good child answers correctly, according
to the orthodox manual of the day ; while Cain and his
party reply like , inattentive boys, who have not half
learnt their lesson. In his multitudinous works, Hans
Sachs introduces heroines and heroes of classic ;^^-
tiquity ; soldiers and statesmen ; lovers and poets ;
saints and devils ; men, angels, and women ; but they
all are made on the same last ; they all, both male and
female, wear the costume of Nuremberg.

The Uterature of Germany was destined to sink
still lower, before its glorious awakening. In the
seventeenth century a piebald jargon, compounded
of Latin, and French, and German, assumed to be the
fashion; and pure German, in spite of all its native
wealth and energy, was derided as rustic, clumsy, and
imgenteel. The style of the day travestied the borrowed
words with a domestic termination, and the labored
periods, admitting here and there the homely expres-
sions of the pure Saxon dialect, resembled some room
in an old castle, where the sober wainscoting, in its

ITS PEOGEESS TILL 1770. 127

stem and real beauty, is bedizened, and all but wholly
concealed under second-hand finery.

II.

A century ago, original^^enius was still inactive ;
the propensity to imitate predominant ; and the talent
for imitating exceedingly feeble. The intellectual con-
dition of the empire resembled its poUtical ; its native
energies were impaired by foreign alliances, and the
German language and Uterature seemed as much neg-
lected as the permanent interests of the state. The
style of writing was a diffiise and pedantic barbarism.
Nor was there any earnest of a renovation of taste and
a revival of nationality. A foreign system cramped
the mind, and translations from the French masters
lost the dehcacy and splendor which they possess in
their own idiom. The nation as a pohtical body had
ceased to have a common feeling ; in the quarrels of
Europe, the states of Germany were ranged on different
sides ; civil wars were not objects of horror ; a com-
munity of poUtical feeling did not exist even in theory, i
Skepticism had counteracted the former energy of the
reUgious principle. The princes and German courts
were all French in taste and manners ; and though
many were lavish of their means in gaining new lux-
uries and increasing their splendor, yet it never occurred
to them to gather round their baby thrones the best
spirits of their nation, and so to embalm their own

128 GERMAN LITERATURE.

memories in a permanent literature. Thus letters had
nothing to hope from the government, the nobility,
or the opulent ; and could find inspiration neither in
national taste, nor in the religious feeling of the age,
nor in patriotism.

Of the leading sovereignties in Germany, not one
was administered in a national spirit. Motives of local
poUcy and relative aggrandizement swayed the cabinets.
The imperial constitution had become a frail bond of
union for elements, which had at no period been well
consohdated, and which were now forcibly repelling
each other ; tottering towards its end, it resembled a
decrepit old man, whose gray hairs may gain a respect
which his strength cannot command. The influence
of Prussia at the diet made the imperial crown still
more an empty pageant. The poUtical alliance of
Austria with the French, though it ended in disasters
to the latter, was unfavorable to patriotism; while
Frederic, who had to contend with a German army
against the Bourbons for his existence, trampled on
the nationality of his subjects, gathered round his
person the writers of France, and contemplated the
hterary occupations of liis own countrymen with super-
ciUous indifference or contempt. Circumstances like
these weighed down the spirit of native writers. A gen-
eral languor characterised style, which had nothing of
natural passion, or even of imcouth energy. The noble
dialect of Germany was used without strength, dignity

ITS PROGBJB88 TILL 1770. • 129

or grace, while the practice of reciprocal indiscriminate
praise, that pestilent patron of mediocrity in either hem-
isphere, lavished honors, as if genius had been of
every-day growth.

Light began to dawn when pubUc discussion be-
came more free ; and a Saxon and a Swiss school were
formed, at first in rivalry, and finally in declared hos-
tility. Of the former, Gottsched was the leader, at
Leipzig ; while Bodmer, at Zurich, with Breitinger for
his squire, challenged his adversaries to battle. A
thirty years' war preceded the establishment of the civil
and reUgious Uberties of Germany ; a thirty years'
literary feud between two men of narrow minds and!
boundless vanity, went before its Kterary awakening.

Of the belligerent parties, Bodmer made the attack,
and for several years Gottsched acted on the defensive.
The Swiss called in the EngUsh to his assistance ; the
Saxon took the French for auxiliaries. Bodmer deemed
himself sure of victory and unlimited glory, when he
brought forward a translation of Milton's Paradise
Lost; and we venerate the man who could summon
Milton as his ally ; but Gottsched damned the trans-
lation with faint praise, and having, as Professor of
Eloquence and Poetry in the University of Leipzig,
formed a Uterary circle in which he was the dictator, he
issued a decree for translations from the French, and
comedies, and tragedies, in Alexandrines. The ruks
of criticism having been estabUshed, poems were writ-
9

130 * GEEMAN UTEEATUEE.

ten, as if to illustrate a principle. Fiime, '* the bright
guerdon/' is distributed by favor. Many a man has
suffered martyrdom for his fidth; but John Rogers
alone found his way into the Primer. To Bodmer
and Gottsched, circumstances secure a conspicuous
place in the history of letters.

Bodmer, bom 1698, was of narrow intellect and
limited taste. His mind was fitted out with some
knowledge of English literature. Of the genius of
Shakspeare, he had, indeed, no conception; but he
was firm in the love of Milton. He detested music ;
and rhyme was a greater offence to him than wine to a
fidthful Mussulman. Himself destitute of humor and
of wit, he questioned their value. He held the poetic
diction of Homer inferior to his own ; and would have
thought himself slighted, had his tragedies been called
only equal to those of .^Ischylus and Sophocles ; though
his imagination was as dry as the leaves of last year.
At first he was a translator and critic, and tried to
compete with his Leipzig rival ; but when almost fifty
years old, he was smit with the desire of becoming an
epic poet, and chose Noah for his theme. Something
he contrived to borrow from Milton and others ; but
he who could not write prose agreeably, attains the
maximum of ridiculousness in his catalogue of the
beasts, whose well-arranged colimms he marches into
the Ark in hobbling hexameters.

Bodmer has the merit of having revived some

ITS PBOQRESS TILL 1770. 181

earlier German works, that were falling into oblivion.
His adversary, Gottsched, bom two years after him, was
a German at heart, and his love of ooimtry is the best
thing about him. This led him to cherish his own lan-
guage, and to plead for its purity. His poetry is made
up of common-places, which he could pour out like
water ; and he was as indefatigable as a mill-stream,
that runs even on hoUdays. In Leipzig his authority
became supreme; and elsewhere, his tragedies were
acted with applause. His Cato, a tame imitation of
Addison's, passed through ten editions. He rebuked
all levity of manner ; abominated operas ; did his utmost
to banish Harlequin from the stage ; and passed judg-
ment on Shakspeare as a complete barbarian. When
he was attacked, his self-complacent pedantry was a
shield, that the keenest weapons of his foes could not
pierce.

His wife surpassed him in talent. The daughter
of an eminent physician, she had, in her childhood,
been employed to copy for her father. In her seven-
teenth year, Gottsched became acquainted with her,
and o£Pered her all the love of which he was capable.
Their courtship lasted for five years ; and their mar-
riage was a barren one, so that she had none of the
consolations of her sex. She was his assistant rather
than his wife ; their union was but a literary partner-
ship. He made her read Greek and Latin authors of the
most heterogeneous character, and in the original Ian-

132 GERMAN LITEBATURE.

guages ; concealed behind a partition of tapestry, she
was compelled to listen, as he screamed out his lec-
tures, and to take notes of them ; she carried on
his correspondence with pubUc men and scholars ; she
daily translated for the press ; she wrote for him tra-
gedies and comedies, reviews and prefaces ; in the divi-
sion of labor, he composed the elaborate treatises, and
she defended her husband from ridicule in epigrams.
She had, moreover, to write the titles of books on the
backs of some thousands of volumes in the professor's
library. All that she accomplished imder such aus-
pices, is of httle value. More feeling and nature are
expressed in her private letter to a female friend, to
whom, about three months before her death, she
vmtes : — " I have sad news to tell you ; I am losing
my eyesight almost entirely. Oh, how I long to hear
the hour of my dissolution strike. Do you ask for the
cause of my sickness? Here it is. Twenty-eight
years of unbroken labor, secret sorrow, and tears
without number, which God only has seen flow."

Of one man, who, at this early period strove for
the honors of verse, we must speak with veneration.
Albert Haller, a native of Berne, a pupil of Boerhaave,
the most eminent physiologist of his day, not only ap-
pUed himself to almost every department of learning,
but in his youth wrote pastorals, and an epic of some
thousands of lines. These he threw into the flames
in his twentieth year. His poem of the Alps was

ITS PROGRESS TILL 1770. 133

composed by him while yet a minor. As a phy-
sician in Beme, he was not very successful ; but Miinch-
hausen, the father of the Georgia Augusta, invited
him to Gottingen. There he awakened a pubUc inter-
est in the youthful university, and established and per-
fected the collections requisite for a^ high school of
learning. After he had been professor seventeen years,
he longed for his own country again, the canton, which
is filled with the brightest and boldest scenes that
Europe can show ; where brooks, that come fix)m dis-
solving snows, leap down precipices of so many hun-
dred feet, that they are dissipated into spray as they
fell ; where flowers grow by the side of masses of ice,
and the mountains produce the plants of coldest re-
gions just above the ripening grape : he longed for his
native city, where one man in four attains the age of
seventy ; where the eye embraces from the hills, in one
view, the brightest glories of the crowded Alps ; and,
looking beyond the fertile fields of the immediate
vicinity, beholds in the distance the glaciers, as they
sparkle in the sunbeams. In Gottingen, he had every
wish for the advancement of his science gratified ; but
then he was in the midst of the ambitious and conten-
tious, whose clashing interests did not fail to breed
dislikes ; and so his mountain land won him again to
independence. Being still in the best years of man-
hood, on his return to Beme, he gave himself up in
part to study, and in part to his coimtrymen. To the

134 GERMAN LITERATURE.

learned periodical, issued at Gottingen, he continued
to contribute; till finally the number of his articles in
that work amounted to twelve thousand. In practical
life, he was always honored with the magistracy ; he
devised a plan for an orphan-house ; he reformed the
medical poUce ; he took care that the poor should have
good salt to their bread ; he settled dissensions about
boundaries between the cantons ; and all the while
continued to advance natural science by his labors,
and conducted a wide correspondence in the pol-
ished dialects of Europe. Meantime, the Univer-
sities of Halle and of Gottingen soUcited him to be
their chancellor ; the learned societies of Europe vied
in electing him their associate; the Russian govern-
ment desired to win him for St. Petersburgh; the
King of Sweden decorated him with the order of the
Polar Star ; and Joseph II. sought him out in his re-
tirement. But Haller was, in the common sense,
neither ambitious nor happy. His spirit never knew
the joyousness of content. In his seventieth year,
he escaped from the sorrows of a melancholy temper-
ament and a sickly frame ; having, a twelvemonth before
Bis death, published the eleventh edition of his poems.
The praise of Haller extends as far as the science
which he advanced. In his poems he writes from his
own warm feelings ; and his earnestness conmiunicates
to his verse an air of solemnity. His style is not
uniformly correct ; and his manner seldom has freedom

ITS PROGRESS TILL 1770. 186

and ease. His ^' Alps " had no model in the literature
of his language ; the descriptions are just, but some-
times too minute and trivial ; noble reflections are in-
terspersed amidst description.

III.

A greater and a better impulse was given to the
nation4,inind by Klopstock, who, having remained the
usual season at the celebrated school of Schul-
pforte, and then pursued his studies as a theologian at
Jena, and afterwards at Leipzig, published, while yet in
his twenty-fourth year, the first three cantos of a poem
which will never be forgotten. At once a new pros-
pect seemed opening for Grerman letters. In 1748,
the poet, though still at an early age, covered with the
glory of unbounded success, went as a teacher in a
private family to Langensalza ; where he became deeply
enamored of one who did not return his affection.
The nation heard with astonishment, that there lived
the Grerman maid that could be indifferent to the suit
of the bard of the Messiah, to whom the laurel had
been decreed by acclamation. Letters were sent from
remote parts, conjuring her to yield her heart, and be-
come the inspiring muse of her lover. All in vain ;
and Klopstock, who was deeply chagrined, in the
days of his dignity remembered his unrequited passion
as a sinful weakness. His fancy lost something of its

136 OERMAN LITERATURE.

delicacy, and his maimer assmned more of stateliness.
From that time he appears officially as the ambassador
of the muses, the representative of morality, and the
example for the nation.

The smnmer of 1750 he passed in Switzerland, on
Bodmer's invitation, and universal veneration wel-
comed him to Zurich ; but the favor of the king of
Denmark called Kim to Copenhagen, where he resided
for twenty years ; in 1771 he established himself in the
repubUc of Hamburgh. Age could not chill his love
of hberty. With a zeal like that of youth he partici-
pated in the enthusiasm excited by the French Revolu-
tion, before it soiled itself with blood. He died in
1803 ; and his funeral was celebrated with a magnifi-
cence never before vouchsafed to a poet^s obsequies.
It took place on a fine day, in the last of March;
thousands and thousands thronged to gaze ; and every
honor which could be shown by the citizens and the
authorities of two opulent mercantile cities, was mani-
fested, as his body was carried from Hamburgh to a
village near Altona, and buried by the side of his wife.

Klopstock's manners were simple ; but he had the
carriage of a pattern-man, as though the whole world
had an interest in his saying or doing nothing improper.
Of friendship he made a sort of idolatry ; and his sin-
cere heart and warm fancy sometimes invested ordinary
men with quaUties of excellence. His muse never had
cause to blush for him, either for want of purity, or of

ITS PEOGRESS TILL 1770. 137

honesty ; and his Hfe was as spotless as his verse. As
it regards the great, he was too upright to flatter.
He had enemies ; but he went always his own way,
and never turned to the right or to the left, to answer
an adversary. When younger poets began to render his
supremacy questionable, he neither encouraged nor cen-
sured them.

Klopstock's merit for the influence he had on Ger-
man literature, and his general merit for us all, as a ^
poet, are very diflferent things. In the first respect, we
give him the highest place among his coimtrymen.
When mediocrity was extolled, he taught the way to
nobler creations ; he reformed the measure of German
poetry ; he led to the aboUtion of the Alexandrine
verse, so inconsistent with the genius of his language ;
he introduced into letters, patriotism, with a genuine
love of rehgion.

Klopstock expressed the spirit of romantic poetry
in classic forms. His measures and his severity of
taste were ancient ; the sentiment and the tone were
peculiar to the modems. He is the poet of feelmg ;
but it is feeling, over which a manly understanding
keeps guard. His mind never plays with alluring
forms, that charm the senses ; he is uniformly earnest.
He despised rhyme, though his best hynms are in
rhyme. He is always national, and full of enthusiasm,
and yet he is in no respect a bard of the people ; we u-.
mention it not to his praise. He is so refined, that he

138 GERMAN LITERATURE.

can be understood only by delicately cultivated minds ;
lie is a mannerist ; he aims at presenting what never
can be described ; and he confounds the spirit of epic
and lyric composition to the injury of his narrative.
He carried his imitations of Greek and Latin metres to
pedantry.

Of the world he knew little ; he found his way to
moral beauty, not through struggles but by his heart.
His love has not the character of an earthly passion ;
for with him, the place for happy love is heaven ; and
in delineating the joys of a£Pection, he most frequently
dwells on the sublime hope of recognition in another
world. His Messiah was not completed till almost thirty
years from the time when it was commenced. This
shows it was a work of labor with him. It did not burst
from a foil soul ; and is in reality very tedious to read.

There can be no comparison between Elopstock
and Milton. Our English poet is immeasurably supe-
rior in all but the expression of visionary and mystic
feeling.

Between Klopstock and Dante, the contrast is still
more striking. Klopstock, to enhven his main subject,
introduces the dead, awakening from the tombs, and
describes their sensations on recovering life. His con-
versations of this kind are monotonous. In Dante,
action follows on action ; every thing is dramatic ; as
you tread with him on the ashes of the dead, the fires
blaze up under your feet. After having made such

ITS PROGRESS TILL 1770. 139

demands on the imagination, to follow him at all, he
assumes the exactest standard of accuracy; his sub-
limity is the natural reflection of an observing mind ;
his sentiments flow from the occasion ; his Itmguage is
homely, significant, and concise ; he is fervent, and yet
deals in facts. Klopstock wraps himself up in a doud,
and walks forth in shadowy sentimental sublimity.
Much of his Messiah is characterised by a constant
effort. He flaps his vnngs sturdily, but fails to soar.
He aims at reaching the loftiest heights of sublimity,
and his feet are still on earth. His writings have not
the serenity that belongs to divine things. Instead of
presenting them in their natural simpUcity and clear-
ness, he gathers around them a misty glory, and in-
dulges in a sort of intoxication of religious feeling in
most of his works of a religious stamp. From this
censure, however, some of his hymns must be except-
ed ; as for instance, the sublime one on Resurrection,
of which the idea is proclaimed with distinctness, sim-
plicity, confidence, and sublimity.

In his odes Klopstock gains a beautiful earnestness,
and an unaffected elevation. Friendship, i^ligion, and
patriotism, inspired him in these admirable compositions. //
The style is severe, unadorned, and concise, even to
occasional obscurity ; but every word is in its place ;
and the light of conviction breaks out in every line.
This praise, which we think the highest, belongs to no
inconsiderable number of the odes, which fill two

140 GEEMAN LITERATURE.

volumes of his works. They never will be well trans-
lated ; for it would almost be as easy to write them
anew.

IV.

Klopstock regenerated the poetry of Germany ; the
first writer of the eighteenth century, whose manner in
prose made an epoch, is Gotthold Ephraim Lessing.
He dethroned the idols that men were worshipping ;
he taught a bolder, more decisive, more profound way
of criticism, and gave an example of a style, which in
its kind has not been excelled.

The son of poor and most religious parents, he
passed a childhood of self-denial, under a strict system
of domestic discipline. At an early age he was removed
to the school of Meissen, and became an excellent
scholar in the ancient languages and in the mathe-
matics. He went from Meissen to the University of
Leipzig ; where, profiting by the instructions of no pro-
fessor but Emesti, he fell into company which it
alarmed his parents to hear that he kept, took a lively
interest in the theatre, actually wrote for the stage, and
remained without any fixed pursuit. Weary of Leipzig,
he removed to Berlin, where he engaged in literary
labors of minor importance. From thence, to please
his parents, he went to Wittenberg, where he faithfully
pursued his studies. Having no source of income but
his literary labors, he next acquired a reputation as

ITS PE0GEE8S TILL 1770. 141

a critic, which made him feared in all Germany. Tired
of Wittenberg, he returned to Berlin, where Mendel-
sohn and Nicolai were his friends, and he produced a
tragedy on a subject of common life. After an un-
satisfactory engagement as a travelling companion to
the son of a merchant, he went to Berlin again, and
supported himself by his writings. For a season, he
was employed actively in Silesia. From Berlin he was
induced to go to Hamburgh, as a dramatic critic.
From thence he was transferred to Wolfenbiittd,
as Librarian ; and he died in the service of Bruns-
wick.

Lessing was distinguished for a clear understand-
ing, accurate and immense erudition, and a rapid mind.
He took nothing on trust ; and, least of all, followed
the impulse of feeling or of fancy. During his whole
life, he never had a dream; and a stoiy is told
of him, that, when a friend, who was travelling with
him on a fine day in spring, expressed rapture at the
beauty of the season, he replied, that he envied the
sensation which he could not share. He described him-
self to be a critic, not a poet. His words always have
a plain meaning. Sometimes he throws out his ideas
in a style that flows like a torrent ; and sometimes en-
forces them by imagery, always significant, and often
beautiful. His imagination, which never dazzled, was
fertile in illustration, so that his style is eminently
epigrammatic. He had a passionate love for what

142 OEBMAN LITERATUBE.

seemed tnith; and, so far from fearing the harsh
censures of others, he delighted in opposition. The
tendency of some of his writings is unquestionably
skeptical ; but his opponents were not without bigotry,
and no one came forward to cope with him with his
own weapons. His conflicts were numerous ; and no
man, that ever engaged with him, came off unhurt.
Dean Swift was not more tremendous in Irish contro-
versies. Indeed, in the most famous of Lessing's
batties, he so cut in pieces the leathern shield of
pedantry and prescription, that his enemies were
obliged to gag him by an edict from his government.

If, from a general criticism, we turn to a consider-
ation of the several works of Lessing, we have to con-
sider him as a dramatic writer, a critic, and a writer on
subjects of philosophy and theology.

Of his dramas, Minna von Bamhelm appeals to
national sympathies, having in the background the inci-
dents of the seven years' war.

Emilia GaloUi, a tragedy in prose, is the finest of
its kind, in the German, or in any language. But this
kind is not the highest. The tale of the Roman Vir-
ginius is made to wear the mask of modem Italy, so
that it becomes a protest agamst the vices of the
petty princes, not of that peninsula only, but of Ger-
many. Thus it gams a political interest. In the Ro-
man story, the knife that is drawn, reeking with
blood, from the wound of Virginia, has a consecrated

ITS PBOGBESS TILL 1770. 148

power, to cut asunder the bonds in which the nation
was held. Rome's Uberty reconciles us to Virginia's
martyrdom. In Emiha Galotti, no revolution breaks
out, and there is nothing but the moral beauty of
the sacrifice, to relieve the impression of horror at the
sad catastrophe.

Lessing is the most distinguished critic of his ^
nation, whether we regard his manner, his originality,
or his influence. His greatest work in this depart-
ment is his series of essays on the drama, published
during the period of his connection with the stage at
Hamburgh. The French taste was at that time preva-
lent in Germany. Frederic H. did not attack the *
French armies more boldly than Lessing the French
dramas ; denymg the identity of the ancient Grecian
and the modem French dramatic art. August Schlegel
has but developed the ideas of the great master. Les-
sing's error was, that he wished to make the stage too
natural ; thus preparing the way for a flood of tame
copies of common incidents. But he gave back to
the Germans their intellectual liberty in matters of
imagination, especially the drama ; he drew the atten-
tion of his countrymen to Calderon and Spanish Uter-
ature ; he gave a masterly analysis and defence of the
critical principles of Aristotle, whose name he declared
he would npt have regarded, had not the reasons of
the Grecian sage possessed such cogent force; and
finally, he set in a strong light the genius of Shak-

144 GERMAN UTEBATURE.

speare, at a time when it was a rare thing, in any
country, to award the highest honors in the drama
to the greatest of masters.

The theological controversies of Lessing embittered
his last days. He himself was opposed to all positive
religious institutions. His view was, that rehgious
truth is eternal, and knows no change ; that by de-
grees the human mind has advanced, and is still
advancing in this, as in every branch of knowledge;
that a revelation is a truth, communicated to those
not yet quite ripe to receive it; that it is a step
towards perfection, to get rid of those prepossessions
which incline to one form more than another; since
religion is above them all— without division and
without change.

When Lessing, by the superiority of his own
talents, was crushing his feeble antagonist, he himself
was silenced by an effort of despotic authority. For
this, and the abuse he received, he determined to
"play the theologians a trick," and wrote his last,
most perfect drama, Nathan the Wise. It is a didactic
drama, of which the moral is borrowed from a story of
Boccaccio, whose wealth has fed a hundred beggars.
The scene is in Jerusalem at the period of the crusades ;
and the poet introduces . the most various personages ;
the chivalrous Saladin, the lord of Mussulmen ; the
wise and wary Nathan, the great leader of the Jews ;
the Christian patriarch ; a dervise from the remote

ITS PBOOBESS TILL 1770. 145

East; a Knight Templar; a Christian female slave;
and a heroine, who was bom a Christian, but had Been
educated in Nathan's house without any particular re-
ligion. Now, great as is the dramatic interest, the
philosophical object is the leading one ; and that is, to
represent these several men as going wrong, and doing
unjustifiable things, whenever they follow their own
particular faith ; and as gaining on our admiration, in
the degree in which they sacrifice their exclusiveness.
In so far as a grand lesson of toleration is inculcated,
and the virtues of humanity, which may bloom on the
Ganges or in Syria, in Jew or Mussulman, in the Deist
or the Christian, are concerned, the tendency of the play
is a noble one. But more is designed ; the writer wishes
not only to show, that generous feelings may be pro-
duced in any cUme, but that all forms of rehgion
counteract those feelings — ^that the Jew, and the
Turk, and the Christian, must each throw away the
peculiarities of his faith, as a dangerous prejudice.
And under this point of view, Nathan the Wise
merits the severest reprehension ; for there is not
one particle of the winning graces of Christianity
in the only Christian characters whom he introduces.
The female menial is a simpleton, that hardly knows
more of her reUgion than that she has been bap-
tized; the Knight Templar is a splenetic, disap-
pointed young man ; brave, but misanthropical ; hon-
est, but rash ; and the patriarch is a bloodhound, who
10

146 0EB3CAN LITEEATUBE.

thinks no more of burning a Jew than of whipping a
thief.

Lessing's merits were negative. He was strong to
pull down, not to build up. He showed the insuffi-
ciency of the rules of criticism prevalent in his country ;
' but he left it for his successors to establish a better ;
he unveiled the defects in the works which then en-
joyed popular admiration ; but he erected no perfect
model in any branch of poetic invention, and his
theory of the drama is a perverse one ; he waged war
on bigotry and blind futh, but he did not leave reli-
gion on a firmer foundation. In short, he attacked ad-
mirably; he opposed triumphantly; but he has added
little to the sum of human happiness and intelligence.

The contemporary and coadjutor of Lessing and
Klopstock in revolutionizing German taste, was Wie-
land, whose career is psychologically curious. He
began as a rehgious enthusiast, and afterwards
paraded the pretensions of a free-thinker; he was
in youth prudish, and in his ideas of love eminently
Platonic ; and bye and bye he thought it manly to be
able to tell a coarse stoiy without blushing.

In this second period, he drew his system of phi-
losophy partly from Shaftesbury, partly from Helvetius,
commending virtue, as a sort of heroism, not to be

ITS PE0GEE8S TILL 1770. 147

expected from every body, but to be admired when
it appeared ; and esteeming morality, because it is
graceful and becoming. Having been a visionary,
he turned satirist; and having himself paraded re-
ligious sentiment Uke Bodmer, he mocked at enthu-
siasm and ridiculed his master. But as plants cannot
thrive without the pure air of heaven, so true poetry
cannot put forth its gloiy without the " breath of God
in the soul of man." We venerate the erudition of
Wieland, but in respect to the moral of his writings, he
seems to us like a snail, creeping over the best things
in life, and leaving them odious by the slime which
marks his progress. The agony of doubt in minds of
real energy deserves forbearance ; but quiet skepticism
is a result of intellectual indolence, or weakness ; and
contempt falls on those who make a base " abandon-
ment of reason " in Epicurean employments. Wieland's
life was regular, but speculatively he yielded himself up
to the influence of lus animal nature, and then rattling
his chains, pretended to think their clanldng was me-
lody, and poetry, and wisdom.

An agreeable style in narration, a pleasant cheer-
fulness of mind, a great extent and variety of acquisi-
tions, a Uterary industry which kept him on the theatre
of action full sixty years, are claims to praise which we
readily acknowledge belong to Wieland. He writes
gracefully, but without vigor; his style is dijBEiise, so
that good-natured critics greeted lus birthday with

148 GERMAN LITEEATURE.

the wish, that the thread of his hfe might be spun out
as long as his ideas in his own periods ; his subjects
have no real variety ; his manner of treating them is
devoid of nobleness and dignity. A young man in
conflict with the temptations of life, is his perpetual
theme, repeated with wearisome prolixity. We have
it in his novels and in his poems ; in the worst and in
the best ; it is the turning point in Obercm, the foun-
dation of Agathon, and, in short, the main staple of
Wieland's productions. It is his philosophy, his
poetry, his prose, his incident, his catastrophe.

We cannot much admire even the epic poem of
Oberon. The narration is easy and agreeable, dear,
and generally interesting. The plots are closely con-
nected, and the stoiy conducted to a perfect end. But
the best things in it are borrowed. Besides, our
author selects for his highest effort, the scene in which
the unmarried heroine gives birth to a child ; and, after
making all possible allowances for nature, and heathen-
ism, and chivalry, and youth, the accident which brings
about the trials of the hero and heroine, cannot, by any
machinery of fairies, be dignified into a poetic mcident.

Agathon, the most famous prose work of Wieland,
is Tom Jones turned philosopher. The story is in-
vested with an Attic mask, and the arts of erudition are
called in to give a lustre to the romance. We have the
system of Plato, assailed by Hippias in person ; the
commonwealth of Athens alternates with Syracuse;

ITS PROGEESS TILL 1770. 149

and Dionysius, and Dion, and Aristippus, and last of
all, the excellent Archytas of Tarentmn, are conjured
up by the learning of the noveKst. But we are not
taken into the secret abodes and private mansions of
Grecian life. It is only modem coquetry that puts on
an Attic name. For ourselves, we think we perceive a
want of individuality, and a wonderful family likeness
in the heathens and christians, the infidels and heretics,
the ancients and modems, who have been described by
Wieland ; and we should trust his delineations of life
at Smyrna, or Syracuse, or Athens, as much as at the
court of Charlemagne, or any where else, except in the
coteries of his contemporaries.

The mind of Wieland was passive, not creative.
He did not gain his stock from communing with his
own soul, or with nature, or with Gk)d ; but he picked f
it up by piecemeal ; bringing into his own gamer an
idea from Plato, and a theory from the French mate-
rialists ; a satirical touch from Cervantes, and yet
more from Lucian ; stealing an incident from Fielding,
a grace from Ariosto, and a stoiy from Chaucer. He
obtamed his inspiration, not " by devout prayer to that
etemal Spirit, who can enrich with all ulierance, but by
the invocation of memory and her siren daughters."
Klopstock thought meanly of him ; and Schiller's Al-
manac did justice to his general acquaintance with
literature, but called him the " gracefrd girl of Wei-
mar, insipid and vain."

15rO 0£RMAN LITEBATUBE.

Wieland and Klopstock are of opposite polarities ;
those whom the one attracts, the other as surely repels.
Wieland treats of actual life, Klopstock of sentiment ;
Klopstock is heavenly-minded, Wieland is earthly to
excess ; Klopstock is elegiac, Wieland is gay ; Klop-
stock excels in lyric verse, Wieland in narrative ; the
former despised rhyme, the latter delighted in it;
Klopstock is an eagle soaring away from the crowd,
Wieland a starling that insults the passers by.

Of the three most distinguished writers, in the first
period of reviving Uterature in Germany, each filled a
large and important part ; the one, by exciting a na-
tional spirit ; another, by exercising the severity of
criticism ; and the third, by keeping in favor the blan-
dishments of rhyme in narrative poetiy. Thus they
divided among themselves the labor of restoring letters
in their country, while throngs of inferior writers
gathered in groups roimd the admired triumvirate.

VI.

But there was one, who pursued his sohtary career
apart from th% crowd. The name of Winckelman is
not to be pronounced without veneration for his ear-
nestness, and sympathy for his sorrows. The whole
circle of human knowledge does not possess a more
cheerful subject of study than that of ancient art, to
which he devoted himself; and we know not the man

ITS PROGRESS TILL 1770. 151

of superior mind, whose life has been less favored by
the ordinary gifts of fortune. He was the son of a
poor shoemaker, in a town of httle note. At the
public school, the aged master was pleased with him,
and took him into his house ; and when the old man
grew blind, the boy used to be his guide, and to read to
him, receiving in return the benefit of his conversation.
After the hardest struggles with extreme poverty at the
gymnasium, at the university, and in early life, when
twenty-nine years old, he obtained a place in the
employ of the Saxon minister, near Dresden, with a
salary of fifty-six dollars. And here he was happy ;
for he could make himself famiUar with painting
and sculpture. When his merits were perceived, the
sovereign of Saxony gave him a pension of one hundred
and fifty dollars, to continue two years, with leave to
travel in Italy. There he made himself Mends, and
resided, chiefly in Rome, for thirteen years. In 1768,
he was induced to visit Germany. As he saw the
mountains of the Tyrol, his heart grew heavy ; as he
descended them on the north, he was seized with a real
home-sickness for Italy. With difficulty he was in-
duced to proceed to Vienna. Here he was well re-
ceived by Kaunitz, who had a taste for the fine arts,
and kindly noticed by Maria Theresa. It was in April
that he entered Germany ; and early in June, he was
on his way again to Italy. On the journey, the kind-
hearted, unsuspecting scholar fell into the company of a

152; OEEMAN LITERATURE.

pardoned convict, who murdered him at Trieste, in the
hope of getting possession of his gold medallions.

Winckelman's History of Ancient Art, first pub-
lished in 1764, is the common property of cultivated
nations; original in its design; full of taste, erudition,
and eloquence . When we consider the nature of the sub-
jects, in treating which he obtained his glory, so unlike
any thing that lay in his horoscope ; or the finished
style in which his works are written, especially when
the imperfect state of German hterature, previous to his
leaving Grermany, is remembered, we feel for him an
unmixed admiration. How energetic a will must he
have possessed, to accomplish what he did, as it were
in spite of his destiny ! And how much is it to his
honor, that, though he could find rest only among the
creations of Southern art, he preserved the pride of a
German, and laid his laurels at the feet of his country.

MEN OF SCIENCE AND LEARNING.

Enthusiasm in letters manifests itself by devoted-
ness. Singleness of purpose can alone conduct to the
highest eminence; it may leave the character feebly
developed in the points that concern the details
of business and active intercourse; but it will give
the mind a singular power in the department with
which it is familiar. Engendered in a fervid spirit by

MEN OF SCIENCE AND LEARNING. 158

a noble object, it grows by exercise into a habit ; and
intellectual life, upheld by a permanent excitement,
almost entirely independent of fortune and the world, be-
comes its own solace and reward. The constant effort at
advancement in culture and the discovery of truth,
gives variety and value to existence. In the eye of the
world, such studious men may appear to be but poor
calculators, who sacrifice the main chance to follow
ideal interests ; but, on the other hand, in their theory,
the man of lower pursuits is a thoughtless spendthrift,
who, being possessed of nothing but time, squanders it
wastefully, and lays up no treasure in himself.

We name a planet after a German who began his
career as a musician in a Hanoverian regiment. He
possessed that power which can consecrate a life to a
great design. Too poor to buy a telescope, he had in-
genuity enough to make one ; and Providence, as if to
laugh to scorn the vain distinctions of scientific corpo-
rations, left it to this child of nature to make the most
striking astronomical discovery of the last century.

Perhaps it may be thought that fame and wealth are
the leading passions which have impelled men to
earnest and undivided application. Certainly the love
of fame becomes a generous mind ; for who would not
wish to stand well with his fellow-men? Yet Her-
schel's great precursor, Copernicus, was superior to its
allurements. He deUberately spent the greatest part
of a life of more than seventy years, in estabhshing the

154 GERMAN LITERATURE.

theory which bears his name ; and possessing a kind of
knowledge which could not but secure to him a univer-
sality of reputation beyond any which a poet can
compass, he yet communed with himself on his great
discoveries so long, that he never saw them published
till the very day of his death.

Or is the prospect of wealth the excitement to
intellectual efforts? In the same department of
knowledge, the industry and labors of Kepler were
unwearied. While others have gidned glory by bring-
ing forward isolated doctrines, Kepler created science.
He had taste and genius for poetry, but gave his en-
thusiasm to the study of the skies. Though in the
service of the German emperor, he yet lived on the
narrowest means ; and, after all his success and all his
labors, left to his family but twenty-two rix dollars, and
an old horse, worth a few florins. But was Kepler
therefore unhappy ? His correspondence breathes the
spirit of cheerfulness, and he tells the story of his own
penury without complaints. Kepler was the precursor
of Newton; the Englishman Uved to be more than
eighty ; Kepler died while not yet sixty. We do not
contrast their respective merits ; but when it is done,
the miserable external existence of Kepler should not
be left out of mind. Newton was worshipped in his
lifetime as a superhuman being. He was member of
parliament ; was knighted ; enjoyed the benefits of for-
tune ; and, dying, left a good estate. Kepler's body

MEN OF SCIENCE AND LEARNING. 155

was given to the earth without honor ; the remains of
Newton were interred with pomp, dukes and lords
being the pall-bearers ; on his monument, he was
called " the honor of the human race." In the last
century, a proposal was made to erect a monument to
Kepler by subscription, and the plan failed. " After
all," said Kastner, "since Grermany refused him
bread while he dwelt on earth, it matters Uttle now
that he has been immortal for more than a century
and a half, whether it gives him a stone." " His mon-
ument," said another, " is in the moon."

^rhis devotedness is more frequently illustrated
among the Grermans than elsewhere in Europe. It
is the same spirit under a different form, that supported
the man, who, more than any other, is the fit represen-
tative of German character — ^the father of the reforma-
tion. When he perilled his life without fear, before the
imperial diet, under the frown of the emperor himself,
he would not swerve from his purpose, declaring for
his only excuse, "I cannot act otherwise, that God
knows."

The exact sciences have continued to be success-
fully cultivated in the country which gave the first
impulse to modem astronomy. Euler continued his
labors with cheerfulness, even in the last seventeen
years of his life, though the light of heaven shone on
him in vain and his eyes were closed on the splendors
of the firmament, through which he had loved to trace

156 GERMAN LITEBATURE.

the wanderings of the planets. In our day the greatest
of mathematicians in Germany is Gauss. Nothing
that he has attempted, is left incomplete. In science,
like Schiller in poetry, he always finished his work
with the most scrupulous exactness and elegance, not
so much to delight others, as to satisfy himself. He
has written Uttle ; but the highest perfection belongs
to all that he has published. Those who are best com-
petent to judge, consider him as the rival of La Place.
In variety of powers, the French astronomer has the
ascendency; in devotedness, he is surpassed by the
Hanoverian. La Place had the vanity to be a peer ;
one may see his portrait in Paris, in which he is repre-
sented in the robes of the privileged order. But who
feels an interest in the Marquis de La Place ? For the
fiumer's son, who expounded the system of celestial
mechanics and discovered new appUcations of the doc-
trine of the calculus, who reconciled the apparent irreg-
ularities in the motions of the heavenly bodies with the
influence of acknowledged laws, and deduced directly
from the principle of gravity the results which had
been gathered from the observations of many cen-
turies— ^for him, one of the greatest mathematicians of
all times, we have the most profound respect. But La
Place, the unskilful minister of the interior, the chan-
cellor of Napoleon's senate, the member of the upper
house of the Bourbons, was, after all, but an infe-
rior man.

MEN OF SCIENCE AND LEARNING. 157

II.

May we not then infer, that the power of con-
secrating a life with undivided zeal to one great object,
is characteristic of Germany ? In the department of
natural history, this quality leads to wonderful accuracy
and minuteness of knowledge. We might refer to the
cabinet in Berlin, as perhaps the best arranged of any
in the world. Not to enumerate many names, we yet
must express veneration for the patriarch Blumenbach,
who for more than fifty years taught the great
branches of natural history and physiology to crowded
audiences. The spirit that breathed in all that he
uttered, enkindled the ardor of curiosity. Versed in all
that could interest a philosopher, he strayed into other
departments of science only to illustrate his own.

His great contemporary in Paris, the Baron Cuvier,
took office under the Bourbons, and, without one single
talent as a statesman, except the gift; of speaking grace-
fdlly and fluently, was yet tickled with the cap and
bells of pubhc place. Blumenbach, too, had been at
court ; but not as a possessor of office. On a journey
to England, George the Third, who loved his Hanove-
rian subjects, invited him to Windsor. "Now tell
me," said the king familiarly, "of all that you have
seen in my capital what has most surprised you?"
" The Kangaroo," replied Blumenbach promptly ; for
that singular animal had then for the first time been
brought from Australasia.

158 GERMAN LITEBATUBE.

The pupils of Bluinenbach cherish towards him re-
spect and affection ; and long after the echo of his voice
shall have died away, they will remember the hours
that were passed in his lecture-room as among the
most profitable and agreeable of their Uves. Is it asked
by what secret charm he so long gathered around him
from all parts of the world a throng of curious youth,
whose affection he governed, and whose zeal he in-
flamed? It was genius united with singleness of pur-
pose and cheerful benevolence. At ease in his own
mind, he observed all earnest efforts with delight, and
derived information from every possible source; and
while his powers are of a nature which would con-
duct to eminence in any career, he never fiEiltered in his
attachment to the science which won his first love.

In the same way the secret of German success in
philological pursuits lies in the unity of object, encou-
raged and strengthened by free and numerous competi-
tion. In England men of learning often acquire high
offices in the church. But Heyne, once immersed in phi-
lological lore, was never to quit it except with life.
Eighteen years did not seem too many to give to the
elucidation of one poet. That poet was indeed
Homer, and the interpretation of his rhapsodies
brought into discussion the whole of Grecian my-
thology. Heyne acquired, on the score of per-
sonal character and capacity for business, a great and
well-founded fame. He was the confidential friend

^

MEN OF SCIENCB AND LEABNINQ. 159

of a prime minister, yet his influence was used solely to
perfect the establishments of the university of which he
was a member. In a letter from him to Herder, he
describes his mode of life. " I see company," says he,
" hardly three times a year," and he declares that " all
his colleagues, except the fools," thus live within them-
selves. He was accustomed to rise at five, and was so
closely employed during the morning, that he did not
see his fEunily till the time for dinner. This was a
hasty meal. At tea, he spent with them a quarter of
an hour, and that only in his advanced age. At eight
came the evening repast, to which he willingly gave an
hour, and then he continued his employments till half-
past ten or eleven. In this way he was able to read
three or four lectures of an hour's length daily, to
despatch more than a thousand letters a year, to publish
elaborate works, of which the titles cover twenty octavo
pages, and to write at least eight thousand articles in
the Review of which he was the editor, beside many
contributions to other journals. Such a career is
hftrdly enviable ; and he may seem to have renounced
all the comforts of social life. Yet Heyne was beloved
in his family, and tenderly respected by his children.
His external circumstances were, for a part of his life,
severe in the extreme. But at last he found a refuge.
Having acquired by his wisdom the direction of the
most respected university of the continent, he beheld
all its institutions thrive under his management; his

160 GERMAN LITBBATUBE.

name spread through the world ; even in his lifetime
the greatest of the Roman poets was introduced into
the United States in the text which his industry had
amended. The merit of Heyna extended to a reform
in learning. The necessity of grammatical precision
continued to be acknowledged, but taste also was culti-
vated, together with a lively sensibility to all the beiauty
and instruction contained in the written monuments of
antiquity. It was in his school, and following in his
steps, that the seed was sown for the rich harvest
which is now gathering in Grermany in every branch
of philological research.

One peculiar merit of Heyne we cannot forbear
mentioning. He was the librarian of the Georgia
Augusta, and an excellent one ; and to us this seems
high praise. There are probably at this time not more
than six good librarians in the world, and of these we, in
this country, at least have one. The office requires de-
votedness ; and fiirther, a good librarian must be conver-
sant with all the sciences, must possess the very spirit of
order, great activity and vigilance, and an almost intiai-
tive judgment, to make new purchases with prudence,
and preserve a proportion in the several departments.
Heyne, though he began under no peculiarly favorable
auspices, was chief Ubrarian for forty-nine years, with
almost unlimited influence ; and he left the collection,
the very best, decidedly the best arranged, and the
most judiciously put together, in Europe. The royal

MEN OF SCIENCE AND LEARNING. 161

library at Paris is a chaos to it. In a collection of
about 300,000 volumes, there is not one on which even
a younger clerk cannot readily lay his hand.

III.

No one has contemplated classical antiquity firom a
more commanding point of view than Prederic Augustus
Wolf, the illustrious rival of Heyne. This most celebra- ^
ted scholar of our times, was bom of humble parents in
1 7 57, at Hainrode, in the county of Hohenstein. Hardly
was he seven years old, before he was entered at the
Gymnasium in Nordhausen ; and at seventeen, he re-
paired to the University of Gottingen, with the reputa-
tion of having abready acquired an extraordhiary ac-
quaintance with the works of the ancients. His favorite
study led him at once to He3me, who questioned him
on his plans. When he declared his intention of devo-
ting himself to classical philology, Heyne, who in his
early years had suffered from extreme want and
deferred expectation, endeavored to dissuade him,
saying, "There are but three professorships of Elo-
quence in all Germany." " One of those three I am
determined to have," repUed the young aspirant ; and,
in fact, in 1783, before he was twenty-seven, he be-
came professor of Eloquence in the University of
Halle, where he pursued his high Uterary career with
11

162 GERMAN LITERATURE.

]x)ldness9 ardor, and, we believe, with prodigious,
though irregular industry.

In after life, he used to say of himself, that it was
his object to be an instructor, not an author. And it
is the testimony of one of his pupils, that at times it
was with diflSiculty he could make his way through the
crowd in his lecture-room. His hearers, it was said,
'' hung upon his lips with such attention and love, that
you might have heard their hearts beat under their
shaggy coats.'" On the other hand he was excessively
overbearing toward his colleagues ; excusing himself in
the words of Bendey, with whom he deUghted in being
compared ; and who would take off his hat only to the
junior students, saying, '' Of the former nothing can
be made; the latter may yet come to something."
But with all the excesses of his occasional arrogance.
Wolfs disposition was benevolent. IBs time he gave
most Uberally to his pupils. He lent books from his
very valuable Ubrary cheerfully ; and when these have
been sold by some ungrateful vagabond, he has repur-
chased his own volumes without losing his temper, and
without becoming less Uberal in his spirit. He used
to say, that there was a malice of the head, and a
malice of the heart. Of the last he declared he pos-
sessed nothing.

When Halle was annexed to the kingdom of West-
phalia, Wolf was transferred to Berlin ; and though
he did not take an active part in the new university,

MEN OF SCIENCE AND LEARNING. 163

which was then establishing in that city, he still pro-
fessed to read lectures. But here was the trial of his
character. The use which a man makes of his leisure,
shows the spirit he is of; and if prosperity is in gen-
eral the great trial of character, it is the opportunity to
be indolent which is the touchstone of the scholar.
Wolf, when he found himself possessed of leisure and
a pension, became idle ; and he who as a phflologian
would have had no peer in Europe, set up for a fine
gentleman. But with all his efforts, the man, who had
spent his youth among the mountains, and his man-
hood among books, never could get the air of a
courtier.

The stranger that would see him, might expect to
find him on a sunny morning in the park between
eleven and one, or at the best restaurateurs about
three, or an hour or two later at his own rooms.
If joined on his walks, and he preferred society, he
would, with delightful garrulity, tell the story of his
early life, repeat his good sayings, especially his severe
ones, fight his battles with his assailants over again,
and boast that his five letters to Heyne were as sym-
metrical as a Greek tragedy. He would recount the
persons of rank, by whom he had been treated with
civiUty; and now and then he would speak of the
poetry he admired, and the examples of ancient or of
modem worth to which he offered a willing tribute.
For he retained to the last something of the lofty spirit

164 GERMAN LITEBATURE.

of a scholar ; if he loved good cheer,' he loved a good
book also ; the exquisite airs in the last opera of Ros-
sini, or the admirable acting on the Berlin stage, never
made him faithless to the strains in the Greek cho-
ruses, which he would pretend that he could read &s
easily as the prayer-book. He studied the art of living
well; but he also retained a soul for the unrivalled
eloquence of Plato. If in his desultory conversation he
sometimes repeated the newest tale of scandal, he
would at others with his clear voice, which was melody
itself, read aloud the perfect hexameters of Homer, or
run through the mazes of a Pindaric strophe, or chant
the rapid anapaests of lus favorite Aristophanes. He
prided himself also on his knowledge of the English ;
and Fielding's Tom Jones was his favorite work. His
pronunciation of the French was not good, yet he held
himself perfectly competent to judge of the deUcacies
and rules of that language.

He could hot brook a superior in any thing. To
show his own mastery over the Grerman, he began a
strictly Uteral version of the Odyssey, adding nothing,
exhausting the meaning of each Greek word, and
giving not merely line for line, but foot for foot, and
caesura for caesura. When he had completed exactly
one hundred lines in this manner, he stopped in the
midst of a sentence, declaring that there lived not the
man who could go on and finish the period. Again,
when he wrote in German, he, more than once, made

MEN OF SCIENCE AND LEARNING. 165

an apology for employing a language that was less
familiar to him than Latin. Of his style in Latin, no
praise could seem to him excessive. Cicero had, in
one of his works, translated a long passage from
the Euthyphron of Plato; Wolf turned the whole
of the dialogue into Latin in a most masterly man-
ner, and on purpose, as he has been heard to say,
that he might challenge a comparison with Cicero
himself.

IV.

Wolf was accustomed to complain, that the study
of theology was made a profession by itself, and
Grotius was his example, to prove the compatibility
of theological erudition with the acquisitions of a
statesman.

German theology, however, is a topic on which it
is not our province to enter. Its learning is univer-
sally acknowledged; but objections are raised to its
faith and spirit. We venture to suggest that Chris-
tianity has nothing to fear from investigation; that
Germany is the centre and main support of protestant-
ism on the continent ; that to declare its most learned
divines no better than infidels, has at least nothing of
consolation in it ; and finally, that the German nation,
as a mass, is eminently quickened and cheered by re-
ligious influences. We wiQ add one word more, for
to defend a tolerant spirit is never out of season. The

166 OERMAN LITEBATURE.

Germans in their turn are astonished, when they are
told that thousands of children walk our streets who
have not been baptized ; and that the great majority
in our country know nothing of the rite of confirmation.
Let us then beware of rash judgments respecting a
great people. The proper consideration of differences
in usages and habits of thought may nourish a
stronger attachment to the principle which underlies a
ceremony and lends to a custom its importance.

Nor shall we attempt an analysis of the masters in
German philosophy. The effect on the nation at
large of the earnest and continued study of meta-
physics, is as manifest as that of Edwards and Hopkins
on the intellectual habits of the people of New Eng-
land. So various are the systems, that almost every
possible theory may be found, either in the lessons of
Kant, who investigates with exactness the sources of
science, measures the boundaries of the human un-
derstanding, sets up th6 landmarks between positive
knowledge and idle speculation, and then deduces the
rules of taste, the principles of justice, the doctrines of
virtue, and the truths of religion, from reason itself,
and the ultimate laws of human existence ; or, in the
audacious Fichte, who leaves the ideal Berkeley far in
the rear, annihilates earth and heaven, and exaggerates
the sentiment of individuality, till he comes to know
of no essence but himself, and deems the universe and
its glories but creations and images of his own mind ; or

THE AGE OF SCHILLER AND GOETHE. 167

in Schelling, who claims existence for the external
world, and, after exhibiting it in the splendors of its
actual being, falls down and worships it, as though it
were identical with the divinity itself; or in Hegel,
who dresses up common truths in uncommon forms,
transpo^s ontology to logic, and constitutes the laws
of logic which to him are the laws of being, the minor
deities of a new religion ; or lastly, the pure and gentle
Jacobi, whose nature abhorred skepticism and specu-
lative abstractions, and received the truths which he
vindicated, as well as his happy style, from the im-
pulse of his heart.

THE AGE OF SCHILLER AND QOETHE.

Of the men of letters in Germany, who in the sec-
ond great period of its literature contributed to elevate
the reputation and improve the taste of their country.
Herder was distinguished for variety of attainments,
industry and purity.

The son of a poor Prussian schoolmaster, he re-
ceived his Uterary education in Konigsburg, at a time
when the chair of philosophy in that university was
filled by Kant ; and while he devoted himself especially
to the study of theology, he was deeply interested in
philosophy and elegant literature, felt the inspiration
which had been breathed into his country by Elopstock

168 GERMAN LITERATURE.

and Lessing, and was desirous of taking part in guiding
the taste and thoughts of the public.

While yet in the vigor of early manhood, after
travelling in his own country and a part of France,
and after having passed five years with the Prince of
Biickebui^, Herder was invited to accept a professor-
ship in theology at Gottingen. But the reigning king
of England, Geoi^ the Third, in the exertion of his
power as Elector of Hanover and Rector of its Univer-
sity, negatived the appointment, on the ground that his
religious opinions were not orthodox. The more liber-
al duke of Saxe Weimar placed him at the head of the
1 clergy in that Duchy ; and by the change of residence.
Herder became the companion of Goethe, Wieland,
and Schiller.

Without possessing great originality, he had that
power which gives life to acquisitions. Conscious of
his own inability to tread firmly in the highest " heaven
of invention," he contented himself with occupations
suited to his capacities, taking the widest range
through the literature of almost every age and nation.
He knew how to enter upon the study of a foreign
work, as if he had been of the country and the time for
which it was originally designed, and he was able to
transfer into his own language the lighter graces, no
less than the severe lessons of foreign poets ; the ballads
of Scotland, and the songs of Sicily ; the traditions of
the Spanish Cid, and the brilliant sayings of the Per-

THE AGE OP SCHILLER AND GOETHE. 169

sian Saadi. To turn over some parts of his works is like
walking in a botanical garden, where the rare and pre-
cious plants of other countries, which thrive in climates
the most distant and most diflferent, are artificially, yet
safely collected, and planted without injury in soils
suited to their natures. ^

In 1778 and 1779 he undertook to collect, and
faithftdly transfer to his own language the most beau-
tiful and most popular songs of all nations, and thus by
comparing the national feelings of different ages and
races to exhibit the identity of all. The noblest bards
were to be assembled, and each to express the genius of
the people to which he belonged, so that from the most
various national tones, the harmony of all with one
common nature might be apparent. These repre-
sentatives of popular feeling from all parts of the
world and all periods of history, were to meet together
and unite in bearing testimony to humanity, the affec-
tions, and moral rectitude. The design was not car-
ried out in its full extent, but its spirit pervades the
volumes of Herder, some of which may be compared to
a fanciful piece of mosaic, composed of costly stones
from all parts of the world, and if not always arranged
in the very best taste, at least always rich in them-
selves, and well fitted to instruct. He did more than
translate. Wherever he found a just and happy image
or allegory, he would interweave it gracefully into his
criticisms or essays ; or remarks on history and man.

170 GERMAN LITERATURE.

From the rubbish of verbal commentators and alle-
gorical expositors, he has drawn many curious and in-
structive fiables, narratives, proverbs, and comparisons ;
thus putting in currency again many a bright thought,
which lay covered with the rust of learning. In fables,
dialogues, and familiar letters, in poems and allegories,

I imitated, translated, or original, he alike endeavored to
please and to teach lessons of goodness. It may be
said of Herder, that he passed his life in tranquil indus-
try, possessed of a deUcate perception of the beautiful,
cherishing in himself and others a love of learning,
creating as it were anew the thoughts of the wise and
good, disseminating a knowledge of what seemed to
him the elements of virtue, and cherishing and pro-
moting whatever can improve or adorn humanity.

In his prose, his thoughts are conununicated under
the most various forms and images ; and his style
would seem gorgeous from excess of ornament, were it
not that for him a profusion of comparisons and figures

1 of rhetoric seems not the effort of art, but the most
natural mode of expression. Few of his works can be
recommended as finished performances, or of universal
interest. His philosophical refiections on the History
of Man are written in a solemn and contemplative
mood, and exhibit, perhaps, most fairly his private
character not les& than his merits as a writer.

There are those who delight in poetry, because it
crowns enjoyment with the most exquisite gaiety.

THE AGE OP SCHILLER AND GOETHE. 171

The muse that guided Herder's steps, showed him
the worm that gnaws at the bud of earthly joys,
till in bitterness of heart, he railed at the fools who
put their trust in them. She showed him the traces
of death in the very haunts of crowded existence, but
also led him to familiarity with the lessons of immor-
tality, so that qualities apparently the most opposite
were united in him. He was heavenly-minded and se-
rene in his own love of goodness ; but he hated all that
was opposed to the objects that he cherished. When
reproof was forced from him, his censure was not
measured. Dislike became antipathy ; and disdaining
all compromise, he loathed what he did not admire,
and detested even to injustice what was not in
harmony with his feelings. In this way his peace was
disturbed, and his life embittered. He held up the
torch to the defects and faults of others with an un-
steady hand, and "the dark flame, throwing out
sparks in every direction, injured himself the worst."

Herder possessed vivacity, but not cheerfulness ; a
kind disposition, but not a happy one ; great suscep-
tibility, but no content. Being of a glowing temper,
he carried his elegance of taste into mournful themes.
He muses on the grave, but covers it with flowers ; his
imaginings are of death, but he bodies forth its angel as
a beautiful youth, with whom he could even grow
familiar. He used to long to see a spirit, and was

172 GERMAN LITERATURE.

doubtless in earnest in the desire. His imagination
has been compared to |;he night-blooming Cereus.

He was fond of nature, for nature soothes irritable
men by her permanent loveliness. To his eye the
meanest floweret opened views into Paradise. But he
never was calmly contented. Wrong affected him, as
some Uvely poisons do the system. He would conunit
acts of indiscretion in defending the side of good feeling
and truth ; and when the serpents of the age turned
and hissed at him, he kept his ground, in haughty
defiance, striking passionate blows, without good aim,
at those against whose venom he took no pains to pro-
tect himself. All his intercourse with man was at-
tended with excitability; and he had Uttle practical
talent, and no tact in the management of ordinary con-
cerns. He grew to be dissatisfied with the whole age
in which he Uved, not less than with his part in it ;
and one fine morning, as he heard the clear tones of
the bells of the cathedral, he exclaimed, " Would that
I had been bom in the middle ages ! " Nay, he was
dissatisfied with life itself, and at the close of it is re-
ported to have said, " Thou Sun, I am weary of thy
beams ! "

His luxuriant and productive learning hung round
his melancholy nature like a vine with its dehcious
clusters round a cypress tree. Yet the works of
Herder are so filled with lessons of benevolence,
and excellent examples, that they nourish the love

THE AGE OF SCHILLER AND GOETHE. 178

of virtuous .action, and above all, the respect for
human nature. The admiration of moral beauty
was a part of his rehgion; his fiedth in it lay en-
shrined within him, with the love of God. His mind
is earnest to gather together the scattered proofs of
human excellence, to discern, amidst the wrecks of
genius and the abuse of power, the marks of a better
nature, to form a beautiful ideal of humanity. The
most touching testimony to the personal excellence of
Herder, was given by the celebrated Amelia, dutchess
dowager of Weimar. On the morning of her own
death, she observed with serenity, " Now I shall soon
be with my dear Herder."

II.

Herder's friend and admirer, John Paul Richter,
at home called Jean Paul, was one of the most singular
and original writers of his age. His works are diflScult
to read ; his character and place as an author not easy
to determine. In the old Spanish plays, the part of
the buflfoon is conspicuous. He has the readiest wit,
the greatest shrewdness, the happiest invention. Not
a responsible actor in the drama, he is the coolest spec-
tator, and all the while observes with judgment. He
sees all that there is that is ludicrous in connexion
with sublimity; he moralizes often in an elevated
strain, but his sentimental borders on the burlesque.

174 GERMAN LITERATURE.

and his sublimity partakes of rant. Does not the
world give cause for the existence of such a being ?
Are not the grandest things which human power can
produce, found by the side of something inexpress-
ibly mean? In the genuine Harlequin, the keen
sensibility to sublime emotions, is united to a pow-
erful talent at ridicule; and raillery and irony are
blended with sincere admiration and eloquence. Of
this character our English Milton has nothing ; Scott
has not much ; Moore a great deal ; Byron, except for
his misanthropy, most of all; especially in his later
period. Now, if we were to express our view of Jean
Paul's place in the great drama of letters, we should
call him the sublime Harlequin. He philosophizes as
wisely and as morally as Hamlet and the churchyard
clowns put together ; like them he is as likely to sing at
grave-making as at any time, and would be as ready to
defend reUgion with a jest as with an argument. He
is more nearly mad, and not less given to muse,
than the Prince of Denmark ; and poor Yorick could
not have surpassed him in infinite jest and excellent
fancy. The first impression produced by almost any
of his works, will be a bewildering one ; but he who is
once ioitiated into his manner, will readily acknowledge
him to be one of the most original and able writers of
his time.

Hofimann followed in the steps of Jean Paul, but
had neither the deep philosophy, nor the fine moral

THE AGS OF SCHILLEB AND GOETHE. 175

sense of his master. His was at once the madness of
the musician, the man of letters, and the libertine;
his mind was as free from restraints, as his life from
rule ; and as he had few sympathies with man, he de-
lighted in the terrors and excitements of supernatural
existences. Striving after terrific interest, he de-
generates into common-places. His enthusiasm is
foaming and turbulent; his eloquence is but in
flashes; and his feverish fondness for unnatural ex-
citement in literary composition, led him to fantastic
inventions. His life was the life of a spendthrift
Epicurean, his death the death of a Stoic. Nothing
that he has written is of such terrific power, as his
own conduct in the illness which followed his ex-
cesses and terminated his life. It was the criminal
grinning at the executioner, as the wheel crushed
him.

Of Burger the best ballads are well known to the
English reader, for Scott has been willing to translate
them. His private history and character were too
wretched to admit of scorn, and too pitiful to win re-
spect. His poems were made the subject of a review by
Schiller, in which the great bard has developed his own
views of his art, with too much, perhaps, of speculative
criticism, but with a noble sublimity of feeling. The
critique condemned Burger, as deficient in delicacy
and the conception of ideal beauty, — ^in every quaUty
which constitutes the essence of poetry. It is usual to

176 GERMAN LITERATURE.

charge Schiller with an error of judgment, resulting
from his temporary addiction to Slant's philosophy.
But whatever objections may be brought against his
abstract reasonings, his judgment on Bi'irger's poetry
is in no wise too severe.

The Stolbergs have hardly a claim to be remem-
bered out 6f their own country ; and the good, rural,
homely, plain-spoken Voss never tasted the stream of
HeUcon, though he was a very learned and very accu-
rate translator and editor. But as a man, he wins our
esteem for his simphcity and independence. The
manners and household of Voss were distinguished
for hospitable frugahty. "I thank Grod," he would
say, "for leaving me cheerfulness in my old age."
And again: "I have Uved a happy life, dividing
my time between my books and my garden." He
even imagined himself to be possessed of philosophic
tranquiUity, though he was the most contentious
scholar of his day. He was always ready for battle.
He foamed at the bare name of nobility ; at the mere
^mention of feudal knights, he raised a hue and cry
after the thieves and robbers; and as some men,
according to Shylock, cannot contain themselves if
they hear

" The bagpipe sing in the nose.
And some are mad if they behold a cat,"
so the excellent and ingenuous Voss caught fire at the
name of a rival or anantagonist.

THE AGE OF SCHILLEB AND GOETHE. 177

Whoever touched Voss on republicanism, struck
the key-note. A splendid eulogy of Washington and
Franklin would follow ; but the discourse would proba-
bly terminate in a tirade against the caste of privileged
birth, of which the chief privilege, he would say, was,
never to be hanged on the gallows.

Voss's hobby-horse was the danger impending over
the Protestant church. He would tell a long story
about secret societies for making proselytes to the
bosom of the Roman Catholic faith ; and rave against
mystical tendencies ; any one who lived on terms of
amity with a Roman Catholic, was to him already little
better than a renegade; and he had the most rare
talent at getting §cent of a disguised Jesuit.

He was a religious man ; but his religion partook
of the sternness of his own character. He pardoned
nothing to devout weakness, or to superstitious feelings.
" This life," said he, " is but the prelude ; action is
happiness here, and without action there can be no
Heaven.'' And then he would get into a passion and
hoUy declare that he could not endure the thought of
Heaven as a place of absolute rest, or of blessedness,
where the blessed have nothing to do. But what
activity could such a man mean ? An English philos-
opher avowed his hope, that his soul after death would
revisit the scenes of its earthly interests, and hover
with delight round his laboratory and his chemical
apparatus ; and they say Johann von Miiller trusted in

12

178 GERMAN LITERATURE.

the next world to be able to oontmue makiiig excerpta
for his universal history. The heroes of Greece be-
lieved they should still, in the realm of spirits, pursue
each '' his &vorite phantom ; '' and the Indian hunter
looks for ampler grounds for the chase,

''The hunter and the deer a shade."

By the same rule V oss might expect still to declaim
intolerantly against intderance, still to oppose bigotry
with a bigotry yet more obstinate, to scold at rivals, to
unmask Catholics in disguise, to translate good verses
and write dull ones, and to live on for ever in the tur-
moils of controversy. He has at last gone tahis rest
with *' the patriaidis of the infant world," and now we
trust he has found, that men of all idigious sects, and
even Jesuits themselves, may reach the woiid of un-
clouded truth; that mistakes in literaiy opinions are
of no more moment than the dust we tread iqxm ; and
that all errors are terminated and forgiven in the re-
gions of perfect knowledge.

Of the Schlegels, the suocessfol founders of a criti-
cal school, the extraordinary merit as critics, dis-
played both in contributions to public journals and in
daborate wc»rks, is cheerfully acknowledged. Still the
light of Lessing outshines them fiv, and not to them,
but to that great mastear, bdongs the credit of having
givoi to the public mind in Germany the impulse
whidi has finalty extended its influoice through the
world.

THE AGE OF SCHILLEk AND GOETHE. 179

Of Tieck, an industrious and gifted adherent of
the critical school of the Schlegels, the brightest poetical
side is the polemical. Whilst the Schlegels criticised,
he wrote humorous and ironical dialogues, poems, and
tales. He contributed essentially to the emancipation
of Uterature from pedantic rules, though at the same
time the tendency of his works, and of those of his
school generally, has likewise been to produce a feeble
and affected imitation of natural excellence.

The fragments of Hardenberg, who wrote under
the name of Novalis, abound in exaggerated opinions,
and also in flashes of real sagacity; but a sickly hue
belongs both to his poetry and his prose. He is like
Laocoon whom the sculptor represents with the mouth
open, as if to shriek ; only in the statue, the agony of
the father excuses the expression of anguish ; but sym-
pathy is not willingly extended to the melancholy of a
young man, with whom life had not dealt harshly.
Yet, in a serious hour, the detached thoughts and
mournful songs of Novalis, will be read with interest.

III.

We do not attempt an enumeration of even those men
of letters, who within the last fifty years have gained
success in Germany. That country boasts of more than
twelve thousand living authors, of whom more than a
thousand are female. In 1823, a curious observer
was able to count two hundred and eighty-seven

180 GERMAN LITERATURE.

dramatic poets alone. In the sciences, which are carried
forward by industry and research, no discovery may be
neglected; but in works of invention, the few great
masters of a foreign nation alone pass the boundary of
their native land to become denizens of the world.

Of these Schiller is one of the greatest. No poet
ever possessed more of the affection of his countrymen.
His fame has been cherished by them with a tender-
ness approaching to a personal attachment. His
nature was frank, earnest, and virtuous; and com-
manded respect for the man, who sacrificed every
thing to his art and the culture of his genius. When
the news of his untimely death was promulgated, men
mourned, as though each family had lost a favorite in-
mate. His life was one continued struggle. The se-
verest censures ever passed upon his faults, have been
pronounced by himself; while he strove with unceas-
ing zeal to emancipate himself from every influence
which could prevent his acquiring the highest moral
and poetic perfection.

His theory of poetry led him to consider beauty as
something independent of the passions which it can
excite ; and to be pursued in a sphere, elevated above
the common sympathies of mankind. The poet was, in
his mind, a superior being, upon whom the bright sun-
shine of inspiration was the direct effluence of celestial
light ; he might, indeed, stoop to his fellow-mortals,
but only to lift them to the elevated regions of purity

THE AGE OP SCHIILER AND GOETHE. 181

in which he moved. These views were the result of
patient study ; they commended themselves to an acute
and speculative mind, which, from its own constitution,
took no paxt in the ordinary bustle of existence. But,
when Schiller came to write, he was not restrained by
cold rules within the icy limits of an austere, or meta-
physical sublimity. In his theory he derided nature,
and longed to depict the ideal; when he invented, his
theory gave him dignity, correctness, and a noble firm-
ness of character; but his feelings hurried him to
throw himself as a penitent at the feet of nature,
and she, like a doting mother, readily forgave him
his temporary absence, in joy at his return.

An only child of fond parents, Schiller was, from
early life, sensitive to every noble quality, and disdain-
ful towards all that is common and mean. His educa-
tion was mihtary, and opposed to his natural tastes,
which he could nourish only in secret. Entirely cut
off from the world, confined within a school which was
governed by mechanism, knowing none but his fellow-
students, wholly unaccustomed to female society, he
ventured to write a play, while yet a minor, and to
publish it a few months after he came of age. " The
Robbers " is universally known. It is the marvellous
production of a schoolboy Titan, endeavoring to take
the heaven of invention by storm. Every thing is
sketched in strong and glaring colors; vices and
virtues are exhibited in then* greatest light and dark-

182 GERMAN LITEBATUBE.

ness, with no intermediate shades. It is a monstrous
production; but spirit and genius move in it, and
impart to it permanent life. His maturer taste was not
able to improve it. The merits and &ults are so
mingled, that it is now printed in its first and bold-
est form.

Schiller attempted the career of an actor, but
without success. In the same period he published two
other tragedies, in one of which his burning zeal for
freedom expresses itself in a withering rebuke of the
German Princes who were then selling their troops to
fight against American independence.

After some years, he gave the world Don Carlos,
in which drama he unfolds his own heart, and gives
the noblest lessons of liberty and public justice. The
play is admirable, but has more of eloquence than of
action, and more of the careful and elaborate views of
a fine mind, than the passions of real life.

The course of SchiQer's destiny led him next to the
pursuits of history, for he became the successor of
Eichhom, at the University of Jena. Kant and
abstract philosophy also won his earnest attention.
He appUed himself to these pursuits seriously, for
his object was to satisfy his inquisitive and impatient
spirit. His lyre lay by his side almost untouched,
while he was making every effort to acquire within
himself that harmony which can alone result fit)m clear
convictions. At the same time his rejection of the

THE AGE OF SCHILLEB AND GOETHE. 183

realities of being, and longing for ideal goodness,
wasted his physical powers; and the result of his
irregular and too great application, was an illness
from which, he never entirely recovered, and which
contributed to impart more of gentleness to his intel-
lectual character. He now strove to reconcile himself
with the world. At this period, his character was fiilly
established in its great outlines. In early life he had
broken away from all patronage. '' The pubUc,'' he
had exclaimed, ^' is alone my sovereign, and my con-
fidant. I belong to it exclusively. Before this tribu-
nal, and before none other, will I plead. This only do
I fear and reverence. I am elevated by the thought
of bearing no chains but the decision of the world, of
never again appealing to any other throne than the
soul of humanity." His noble nature, improved by
carefrd study of the records of mankind, and raised to
contemplative excellence by the zealous and solemn
study of philosophy, was now restored to the career of
poetry. A series of most beautiful lyrics, some
of which are among the best in the Uterature of the
world, were gradually published, and won universal
favor. But the results of his investigations in history
and speculative science were to be embodied in one
grand production. It is not in the narrative of the
Thirty Years' War, but in the tragedy of Wallenstein,
that the peculiarities of Schiller, at this time, are most
clearly reflected. In the English drama, Macbeth

184 GERMAN LITERATURE.

is the production with which it has the nearest
analogies. In the display of men, hurried to their
ruin by a moral necessity existing in themselves,
they are alike. But the inimitable master has laid
his scene in remote and apocryphal history; in
Wallenstein, we have real men, and events all too
true ; and this union of historic dignity and dramatic
excellence was a triumph reserved for Schiller.

Mary Stuart, and the Maid of Orleans, rapidly
followed. In the first of these, Schiller has succeeded
better than in any of his works, in delineating woman.
It has in a less degree than Wallenstein the stem sub-
limity which is imparted by the unseen influences of
an avenging destiny; but it makes a more direct
appeal to the human heart. The Maid of Orleans is a
dramatic narrative written in the spirit- of legendary
romance ; it is fiill of striking contrasts and marvellous
interpositions, rather than a careful representation of hu-
man agencies and passions. One of its scenes furnished
to Scott the fine passage in Ivanhoe, where the Jewess
observes the battle, tod describes its progress to the
imprisoned hero.

The speculative tendency of Schiller's mind led
him to make an experiment of introducing the Greek
chorus into modem tragedy. The experiment failed,
and the Bride of Messina is sustained by the splendor
of its several parts, not by its general merits. The

THE AGE OF SCHILLER AND GOETHE. 185

poet returned at once to the right path, and history
again lent itself to his genius.

The love of humanity, the zeal for freedom and
social progress, which pervade his lectures, essays,
tragedies and poems, made him restless and anxious,
in a season of deep dejection for the friends, of liberty.
For him the French Revolution seemed to have failed
from the vices'of its friends, and the despotism by which
it was succeeded. The eagle of France was invading
Germany ; pubUc virtue in sovereigns seemed exhaust-
ed; the people had not yet been disciplined into inde-
pendent action. A deep gloom was settling on the
prospects of his country. The darkness, which to him
overspread the civil world, was as thick as that which
shut the bard of Paradise from " the sight of vernal
bloom, or summer's rose ; " and, like Milton, Schiller
did but the more turn inward, preserving his trust un-
impaired in the truths and in the providence which
were to rescue liberty, and peace and virtue. At the
opening of this century it had seemed to him that they
could nowhere find a refuge ; and reproving alike the
mihtary ambition of France and the commercial avarice
of England, he complained despondingly that the search
on earth is vain for the happy regioli where freedom pre-
serves its freshness, and the beautiful youth of hu-
manity its bloom. But hope never expired within
him ; in his last great production, he sketches Switzer-
land and the life of the Swiss in unaffected simplicity.

186 GERMAN LITERATURE.

and founds a work of the sublimest character on the
patriotism of a commonalty of peasants and herdsmen.
His heart in its anguish dwelt in the vales of Uri and
Unterwalden, the rocky shores of the lake of Lucerne,
among the consecrated scenes of Altorf and Kussnacht
that had echoed the voice and borne the footsteps of
William Tell. The poem which conunemorates the
emancipation of the three cantons, is the masterpiece
of Schiller's genius. In it he gave lessons of national
independence, of resistance to tyrants, of the inalien-
able right of the pure, laborious, peaceful husbandmen,
to govern themselves. The interest of the play rests
not on William Tell; but with infinite skill, which no-
thing but afiectiouate sincerity could have inspired, it
is diffiised through the little nations that were lifting
themselves into political independence, and gathers
round the action more than the man. In this Schiller
has not been surpassed by poet or historian. Such
was his last work, completed while the hour of death
was drawing near.

As the hart pants for the water brooks, he panted
for the realms of truth, which puny despots and time-
servers could not invade. He had studied the whole
history of man, and nowhere found his visions realized.
"It is the dove," says a French biographer, "that
quitted the ark to wander over all the earth, but find-
ing nowhere rest for its wing, returned to its heaven-
appointed shelter.'' Just a few instants before his last

THE AGE OF SCHILLER AND GOETHE. 187

breath, a Mend inquired of him how he was, and re-
ceived the answer, " Cabner and cahner."

" E'en then," says our own Bryant, who is of a
kindred character, but bom in a happier land,
"E'en then he trod
The threshold of the world unknown ;
Already, from the seat of God,

A ray upon his garments shone —
Shone and awoke that strong desire

For love and knowledge reached not here.
Till death set free his soul of fire.
To plunge into its fitter sphere.
Then who shall tell, how deep, how bright.

The abyss of glory opened round ;

How thought and feeling flowed, like light.

Through ranks of being without bound ! '"

Thus he died ; just as the world was hoping from

his maturity a series of works that might be associated

with the best of the literary treasures which it has

taken ages for human genius to accumulate. And yet

he has been declared happy in the period of his death.

In the memory of coming generations, men live as they

are found when the angel of death summons them

away. Schiller will be ever present, as dying in the

noonday of his glory; and to gratitude for all that he

was permitted to accomplish, there will ever be united

a regret for what humanity has lost. Yet to him

death was seasonable. Another year, and he would

188 QERMAN LITERATURE.

have seen the anny of a detested enemy in his home,
and the flag of foreign tyranny waving in triumph over
the fairest parts of the land of his nativity.

If we should compare any English poet with
Schiller, it would be Byron. And yet there is still
more room for contrast than comparison. Both were
restless, and found no happiness in the world; but one
was happy in himself: both were of wild and irregular
habits of mind in early years ; but of one the life was
pure : both imparted the character of their respective
passions to all the objects which they represented; but
the one was soured to misanthropy, while the other
glowed with benevolence. Schiller has produced no-
thing like the narrative poems of Byron ; but Byron
must yield the palm in the drama. Both are among
the best lyric poets of modem times; but here too
Schiller is the superior. Both died in the vigor of
life, the one a martyr to his art, the other to his zeal
for Uberty.

rv.

Goethe and Schiller are an antithesis. Schiller,
though ennobled, remained in sympathies essentially a
plebeian ; Goethe had the title and the views of a man
of rank : Schiller was proudly independent, exhausting
his life in unrelenting industry, rather than receive a
pension ; Goethe had no scruple in accepting from a
prince enough for wants which he declares were not

THE AGE OF SCHILLER AND GOETHE. 189

little. Schiller had a warm heart, and a mind which
would think and utter itself freely; to Goethe the
afiFections were subjects for dissection, and he always
considered before he spoke. Schiller's writings bear
evidence of his discipline in the sublime lessons of
Kant ; Goethe rarely troubled himself about philosophy
or religion.

Of the value of Goethe's poetry and the result of
his influence different opinions exist ; but it is too late
to dispute his genius. Pericles is acknowledged to
have been a consummate statesman, becauap he for
forty years preserved his supremacy in the councils of
one city ; in the German republic of letters, opinions
are as free and as ^fickle as was the popular voice at
Athens ; and he who has had them in his favor for
more than half a century, and has all that time been
hazarding his reputation by new efforts, has given the
clearest indications of unsurpassed power. Extensive
and lasting popularity is the least questionable testi-
mony to poetic excellence. If the multitude and the
critic are at variance, the latter is in the wrong. The
poet reflects the passions and sentiments of men'; he
cannot please long and widely, unless he reflects them
with truth.

The hterary history of Goethe is explained by his
private life. Frankfort, the place of his birth and early
residence, faciUtated the acquisition of his native lan-
guage in all its richness ; at the same time the free im-

190 OSRMAN LITERATUEE.

penal city, the theatre of the emperor's coronation,
imbued his imagination from childhood with mediaeval
images. At the nniversity of Leipzig he found little
that was in harmony with his tastes; he was there-
fore driven to look into his own heart and intrust
its e^q)eriences to verse. His earliest productions
took the color of his studies and his emotions. The
strictly national drama of Goethe shows how fondly he
had looked into the antiquities of Germany; and in
Werther he introduced all that observation and ex-
perience had taught him of the wasting vehemence
of love.

Two years after the appearance of Werther, Goethe
is found at Weimar, in the fiiU enjoyment of public ap-
plause, possessed of the affectionate regard of the
prince, who had just inherited the ducal purple, sur-
rounded by the best artists and scholars of Germany,
and admired at court by a circle celebrated for its
refinement. In due time he was honored with the
various civil titles which are most coveted by his coun-
trymen. The pencil of Raphael almost made him
a cardinal; skill in poetry introduced Goethe into the
council of Ids sovereign ; but he never was withdrawn
fix>m literature by political ambition.

A change went forward in the character of Goethe's
mind. Though possessed of public favor, and con-
scious of unexhausted resources, he for twelve years
published nothing of importance ; but the society of

THE AGE OF SCHILLER AND GOETHE. 191

Weimar, a tour in Switzerland, reflection and study,
contributed each in its degree to finish his education as
a poet. At last, in 1786, he was seized with an irre-
sistible longing to go beyond the Alps, and his sovereign
enabled him to gratify the passion for travelling ; that
passion, which is stronger than ambition, and stronger
than love ; which has relieved dethroned monarchs of
their weariness, and allured statesmen fix>m pubUc life;
which tempted Caesar from victory and Cleopatra
to gaze at the cataracts of the Nile, and drew an
illustrious Swedish queen from a reign of glory to
the ruins of Rome. Had Italy nothing but its sky
and its scenery, where nature has exhibited her love-
Uest forms ; or its poetry, which contains all that can
delight and elevate the imagmation; or its music,
chanted in the streets, given in full choirs in the
churches, charming the senses by the artful combina-
tions of harmony in operas, and heard in all its ten-
derness and perfection at the vespers in St. Peter's and
the choruses of the Holy Week; or its buildings and
statues ; or its pictures, which exhibit not only all that
is most pleasing in real life, but all ideal loveliness ; or
its recollections, not of the ancient heroes of the com-
monwealth only, but of Petrarch, Raphael and Michael
Angelo ; or lastly, the race which now dwells there ; it
would be a country fit to enrich the mind of the
traveller with images, excite and diversify his inventive

r

192 GERMAN LITERATURE.

powers, and impart a poetic impulse to all his faculties.
Goethe entered it in the best years of early manhood,
possessing a cultivated taste, a lively perception of the
beautiful, a judgment improved by study and fitted to
observe and compare. What wonder, then, that a resi-
dence in Italy of two years should have formed an
epoch in his personal history.

At the period of his return from Italy, the intellec-
tual character of Goethe was matured. His Faust had
been an invention of his youth, but was now finished
with the severest care. His Iphigenia, and his Tasso,
are monuments of industrious genius, which his coun-
trymen admire with one voice, and which posterity will
not suffer to perish. His memory was all the while
acquiring new stores of thought, and his love of
art was gratified by the most varied studies. And
this is perhaps the only point, in which the inventive
writer has the advantage over the man of science.
The latter is more sure that industry will ultimately be
followed by reputation and opportunities of usefulness ;
yet he must limit his investigations, and subordinate
general culture to his particular pursuit. But it is the
duty of the former to roam wherever there are flowers,
to contemplate excellence of one particular class till
the mind has become enriched by it, and then to pass
onwards to new stores of information and new sources
of beauty ; so that every principle of human nature,

THE AGE OF SCHILLER AND GOETHE. 193

every passion, feeling, and power may be developed,
disciplined, and brought to its highest perfection.

The later works of Goethe are characterized by
dignity, composure, and deliberation. Having ac-
quired a knowledge of man by a ready talent at obser-
vation, and having possessed himself of extensive learn-
ing, which, though it may in itself be barren, fertilizes
and adorns, he continued to write with perfect self-
possession, to plan with coolness, and to finish with
effort and care. In a word, the years of his appren-
ticeship were over, and he had become a consum-
mate master in his art. Werther had been written
in four weeks. His productions were no longer
the accidental effusions of genius, but the finished
works of an artist, considerate in the use of his re-
sources, and regularly and harmoniously advancing to
the accomplishment of his design. The dramatic poem,
Tasso, the performance in which, perhaps, the German
language appears in its most perfect state, bears the
marks of long study and care ; and Wilhelm Meist^
occupied its author for more than fifteen years.

If Goethe, amidst his unequalled success in Ger-
many, has not in the same degree obtained the suf-
firages of other nations, the causes exist in the character
of his works. Instead of describing sentiments of ten-
derness and true humanity, he has more firequently
sketched the sorrows which spring firom the imagina-
tion, and the vices of refinement. In Germany, the
13

194 GERMAN LITEEATURE.

characters in the Elective Affinities are acknowledged
to be drawn with truth; in the United States, the
book would be thrown aside as a false and dangerous
Ubel on human nature.

Among the ancients we hear nothing of the tor-
ments of a diseased or ill regulated mind, at least till
the age of Sappho. A man like Rousseau could not
have been formed under the institutions of Attica;
beings like Childe Harold and Lara of the English
poets, or Eaust and Tasso of the German, could not
have been invented by an early Greek writer. Himian
nature, and usually under a cheerful aspect, as the dis-
penser of social happiness and the mother of generous
actions, was the theme of the epic and tragic muse.
The bard of Chios was the Mend of man ; and in the
spirit of cheerful benevolence exhibits Glaucus rejoicing
in his youth and glowing with generous emulation ;
Nestor, though he had seen three races of men fade
before him, still complacently contemplating the labors
and changes of being ; Hector, in the season of danger,
yielding for a moment to the softness of parental affec-
tion. In Homer, the scenes are hopeful as on the
morning of a battle, when the war horse is prancing,
and the hero exulting as a strong man before a race.
But Goethe presents the field at evening, when the
weary are retiring from the conflicts of life, with
mangled limbs and heavy hearts. He depicts men
driven to despair and suicide by hopeless desire, women

THE AGE OF SCHILLER AND GOETHE. 195

languishing from a passion, which their own innocence
condemns ; persons of dehcate sensibility brooding over
unreal pains, till they turn every object in nature into
nutriment for their weakness, and " drink misanthropy
even from the sources of love."

But not only has Goethe described the perverted
sentiments which grow out of vicious refinement.
Some of his works are offensive from the indifference
to moral effect, pervading both their plan and exe-
cution. There is c^use to express both surprise and
disgust, that a man of fine genius, conversant tvith the
sentiments and principles which are the living springs
of beauty ; a man, who, as he observes of himself, had
received the veil of poetry from the hand of truth,
should have stooped to win a disgraceful popularity by
appeals to the weakness and unworthy passions of
human nature, and darkened the clear revelations of
celestial beauty by the mixture of earthly passions.

For derelictions like these a just indignation need
not spare its censure ; but it must still be acknowl-
edged that Goethe has excelled all his countrymen in the
ease and grace of his style ; and his superiority is still
more conspicuous in his variety. Indeed, no two of his
works have the same character. Other writers multiply
their efforts on some one congenial class of subjects ;
Goethe is universal. He delineates not a portion of the
world, but the whole. Misfortune moves freely 6ver the
earth, and joy selects for itself no aristocracy ; in like

196 GERMAN LITERATURE.

manner, the poet has allowed himself to wander into all
classes of society, and has brought back inspiration
fipom all. He treats successfully a multitude of sub-
jects which would have bewildered inferior men. With
the step of serene activity and unimpassioned judg-
ment, he walks, like the enchanted hero of an eastern
romance, through the hundred halls of the palace of in-
vention, and all the gates fly open at his approach ; but
hardly has he entered, when the portals dose again, so
that none can follow in his footsteps.

The character of (joethe's mind is that of self-
possession. No pining passion prostrates the energy
of will; no crazed imagination corrupts the healthy
exercise of judgment. The author of Werther is the
very last man who would have killed himself for love ;
the poet who has delineated Tasso's exquisite sensi-
bility, was never a misanthrope or a hypochondriac.
The stream of life gushes for him from a clear fountain,
and during all its course has reflected the light of day.
This it is, which distinguishes him from Rousseau and
Byron, from Tasso and Schiller. The peculiar mark set
upon all his writings is a placid contentment with nature
and reality. He never turned in disgust from the world
in which he has his being. Life and man are his
themes. He does not require to annihilate every thing
that is clear and individual around him, in order to
gain free exercise for fancy in an ideal world ; he is
like the fabled giants, who were strongest when their

THE AGE OP SCHILLEE AND GOETHE. 197

feet touched the earth. There is in him no trace of
sickliness of mind, no lines worn by a diseased ima-
gination. The beings who move, speak, and act in his
works, are men and women, of veriest flesh and blood.
It is of himian life that he mifolds the panorama.

The manner of Goethe is generally elaborately
finished. Let every young man take a lesson from the
master in this ; he always wrote with difficulty. He
held it a duty to labor, and did not take advantage of
his talent to write with slovenly facihty. Yet he leaves
upon his works no traces of the toil which they cost
him; we are introduced at once to a splendid and
highly finished edifice, but all the instruments of
preparation are removed.

Hence it is that he does not excel in fragments
merely. His works, as such, merit admiration. It is
not in parts that he deserves praise, so much as in the
whole. To the reflecting reader he furnishes abundant
lessons ; those who clap their hands only at flne lines,
and care little for complete perfection of workmanship,
Goethe takes no pains to please. He is uniform and
sustained; and his best passages derive a peculiar
charm from their adaptation and fitness.

The drama of Faust is the production most nearly
exhibiting the general cast of thought which pervades
the writings of Goethe. All its scenes have an air of
reality ; and with much that is coarse and offensive, it
describes vice in the fiEithomless depths of its misery.

e

195 GERMAN LITER ATTRT.

But the greatness of the play consists in its faithful re-
flection of the sensuaUtT and skepticism which were
characteristic of the author's times. It is an age of
analYsis ccmfessing its want of aD faith, and the preva-
knee of that spirit of doubt, which would gladly drown
its troublesome restlessness in pleasures, but only finds
itself more and more disquieted. Milton invests Satan
with the majesty of an archangel ; Mephistopheles is a
Teiy devil, hideous and mean, ridiculing aD noble feel-
ing, scoffing at human knowledge and aspirations ; and
he holds Faust so riveted to him, that the poor victim
who had paid his own soul to purchase the right to
command, is neither able nor willing to free himself
from grovelling subjection to his base eompanion, who
harries him firom one excess to another, nearer and
nearer to the gloom of despair.

A great poet is the mirror of his time, just as a
J ' great philosopher is the exponent of its general culture.
Goethe is in one sense the representative of his age.
The philosophy of Descartes had introduced the spirit
of skepticism ; Voltaire, beginning with skepticism,
had proceeded to the work of analysis ; and in the
general pr»:virg to which all things were subjected, a
generatioLi seemed resolved on considering what was to
be thrown away, and not what was to be preserved.
The Titans went forth to destroy; and in the over-
throw of ancient superstitions, forms of government and
thought, the old world seemed coming to an end. At

THE AGE OF SCHILLER AND GOETHE. 199

this period Goethe appeared. He lived before the
European mind was ready to rebuild, and after it
had caused the time-honored institutions to totter.
Faith in verbal inspiration was gone; and it was
still rather the fashion to deny the existence of the
soul, than to look for sources of truth within it. This
is the moral and political aspect of Goethe as a writer.
He is not a destructive. He came into a world of
ruins ; but he had not vigor to continue the warfare, nor
creative power to construct anew. And thus he floated
down the current passively ; adhering to the past, yet
knowing that it was the past ; no iconoclast himself,
yet knowing that the old images, before which men
bowed down, were demolished. His works have no
gliihniering of faith ; he cries hist ! and lets the multi-
tude continue to adore the idol which he knows to be
broken. His infidelity reaches to the afiections and to
intelligence. He writes of love ; and it is to recount its
sufferings, and leave the sincere lover to shoot himself.
He writes of a hero, the liberator of his country, the
martyr for its independence ; and confounding patriot-
ism with libertinism, he casts aside the father of a
family, whom history had extolled, to represent a reck-
less seducer. He writes of a scholar, outwatching the
bear, becoming wise with stores of all knowledge, and
makes him so dissatisfied by his acquisitions, as to sell
himself to the DevU for the opportunity of sensual

/

200 GERMAN LITERATURE.

enjoyment. Every where the pages of Goethe are
stamped with evidence, that he has no faith in
reason, or in the affections ; in God, in man, or in wo-
man. Will you have the type of Goethe's character ?
Behold it in his conduct. In his earlier life he joined
the army of Prussians, when it invaded France to
restore the Bourbons. He was no Roman Catholic ;
he knew that legitimacy was a wom-out superstition ;
he knew that the old noblesse of France had lost
its vitaUty; and yet he takes up arms to compel
the worship of the public at deserted shrines and
broken altars. Such was he in opening manhood;
such was he as a writer; such was he throughout
his pilgrimage. Goethe, — ^who in youth was indif-
ferent to God, and reverential only towards rank
and the Bourbons, — Goethe, who, in his maturity,
while his country was trodden imderfoot by foreign
invaders, quietly studied Chinese or made experiments
in natural philosophy, — Goethe, who wrote a fulsome
marriage-song to grace the nuptials of Napoleon, —
Goethe, the man of letters, who, in his age becoming a
Duke's minister, almost alone, with but one ally, stood
out against the freedom of the press, — Goethe, is the
poet, who represents the morals, the pohtics, the ima-
gination, the character, of the broken-down aristocracy,
that hovered on the skirts of defeated dynasties, and
gathered as a body-guard round the bier of legitimacy.
Goethe is inferior to Voltaire, not in genius and

THE AOE OF SCHILLER AND GOETHE. 201

industry only, but still more in morality. The Prench-
man had humanity; he avenged the persecuted; he
had courage, and dealt vigorous blows for men who
were wronged. His influence was felt in softening the
asperity of codes, in asserting freedom of mind, in
denouncing the severity that could hate protestantism
and philosophy even to disfranchisement, exile, and the
shedding of blood. But Goethe never risked a frown
of a Gennan prince for any body. He was a prudent
man, and, in the great warfare of opinion, kept quietly
out of harm's way. On religious subjects, he mys-
tified; on poUtical subjects, he was discreetly silent,
except that he adored rank; worshipping birth like
intellect, and ever ready with flattery for the ruling
powers.

Goethe has sometimes been the divinity of men,
who rely on the spontaneous action of human na-
ture, and reverence impulse as the voice of God.
But a just analysis does not sustain their preference.
He never was carried away by a holy enthusiasm for
truth or freedom. On the contrary, Goethe was one
of the most wary, calculating, circumspect people of his
times. He did not speak unpleasant things in a tone
louder than a whisper ; he kept his thoughts to him-
self, if his thoughts were likely to give offence in high
places. In all his works, — except perhaps in some of
the feeble, rambling, ill-conceived, diffusely-executed
productions of his extreme ag?, — ^there is not a line,

r

202 GERMAN LITERATURE.

which would by possibility excite the distrust, alarm
tlie sensitiveness, or t\\inge the conscience of the profli-
gate aristocrat ; the empress of Austria will find in every
line of his poems to persons, that the poet knew the
awful distance between himself and the high per-
sonages whom he flattered ; and the emperor Francis
could consider his politics orthodox. A free press was
to him not at all desirable. He had ah-eady so ruled
his own spirit, that the words it uttered had no need
to fear an imperial censor. " Royalists," he says,
"Royalists, who have the power in their hands,
should not talk, but act. They may march troops,
and behead, and hang. That is all right. But to
argue is not their proper way. I have always been
a royalist. I have let others babble. I understood
my course, and knew what my object was." In
history his judgments are analogous. Marathon
was a name that found no interpreter in his breast.
The fleld on which the hopes of human freedom were
redeemed, was in his view eclipsed by Waterloo.
Or hear him explain the true foimdation of parties.
" Much is said," exclaims the rival, as he calls himself,
of Napoleon, of Frederick II., and of Luther, " Much
is said of aristocracy and democracy ; but the whole
affkir is simply this: In youth, when we possess
nothing, we are democrats ; but when we have come
to possess something of our own, we wish to be
secure." " Freedom," he says, " consists in knowing

THE AGE OF SCHILLER AND GOETHE. 203

how to respect what is above us." And, again : " If a
man has freedom enough to Uve in health, and work at
his craft, he has enough." Goethe expresses his deep
sympathy for Lord Bjrron, who had the folly to speak
out all that he thought ; and he entreats " pity " for
Lessing, because Lessing would speak his mind, would
"meddle," as he expresses it, would share the polem-
ical character of his times ; would insist on taking oc-
casion to "vent his pique against priests and against
princes." And Goethe sums up the whole mystery of
poUtical wisdom in the following maxims : " The art of
governing requires an apprenticeship; no one should
meddle with it before having learned it." — " Let the
shoemaker abide by his last, the peasant by his plough,
and the king by his sceptre." He condenses his sys-
tem into three Unes, which he puts into the mouth of
Tasso :

" Der Mensch ist nicht geboren frey zu seyn ;
Und fiir den Edlen ist kein schoner Gliick,
Als einem Fiirsten, den er ehrt, zu dienen."
This was written in the period of the American Revo-
lution, and is in plain English, " Man is not bom to be
free." Mark the meaning ; man is not only not bom
free, but not designed by Providence " to be free."

In morals and their theory, and in philosophy,
Goethe is tme to the character which he displayed
in actual life. In every thing that relates to firmness
of principle, to love for trath itself, to humanity, to

204 GERMAN LITBRATURE.

holiness, to love of freedom, he holds perhaps the
lowest place. Byron, Voltaire, Shelley, soar far above
him in generous feelings.

I Yet Goethe has made an epoch. In the art of
writing German he has no superior. He entered
on the career of letters, at a time when his country-
men had not obtained mastery over their language,
and in German style, he became the instructor of his
nation. It has been said of Dryden, that from his
writings sometimes not a word can be spared. The
admirer of Goethe may turn to his prose, where a

, golden style, sUghtly tinged with mannerism, possesses
deamess,* richness, moderation, and melody; to his
smaller poems, where often for pages together no
word but the right one occurs; where each word
is in its proper place; and where the Uttle song,
in its terseness, its completeness, and its felicity of
expression, leaves nothing to be desired. Coarseness
aboimds ; but again there are poems which are of the
utmost dehcacy, pure in the conception and harmonious
in the execution. His Herman and Dorothea is a
strictly national idyl, in which the German manners
are portrayed, in a plain and almost homely but grace-
ful manner, with inimitable truth; and again in his
drama of Tasso, which has no other object than to
depict a condition of mind, the nicest shades of senti-
ment, and the most exquisitely refined tastes, are
described in language of perfect harmony. In Egmont

THE AGE OF SCHILLER AND GOETHE. 205

we find ourselves transported to the streets of Brussels,
mixing in the popular clamors and complaints of the
disaffected Netherlands ; and it would almost seem,
that the tragic muse of the Greeks had herself dictated
Iphigenia to a worthy disciple of Euripides.

At the close we must again concede to Goethe
that quaUty which distinguishes Scott, and in which
Shakspeare was of all English writers pre-eminent —
Truth in his descriptions. This, combined with the
beautiful style and artistic skiU of an accomplished
master, wiU preserve through all the vicissitudes of taste
the fame of a poet, whom miiversal consent would
revere as one of the greatest of all time, if he had con-
nected the culture of art mth the service of humanity.

TRANSLATIONS.

[The few pieces which follow, were written at a
very early period of life ; some of them while the trans-
lator was still a student.]

THE IDEALS.

OCHILLSR,

Schiller having arrived at the age of five and thirty,
bids farewell to the illusions of his youth.

And wilt thou, fond deceiver, leave me.
With scenes that smiled in fancy's eye.
With all, that once could glad or grieve me.
With all inexorably fly ?
Can naught delay thy rapid motion?
Can naught life's golden season save?
'Tis vain ; eternity's vast ocean
Receives the streamlet's hastening wave.

The dazzling hght has long been spent,
Which round the paths of childhood shone ;
The chains of fancy all are rent.
And all her fair creations flown.

TRANSLATIONS. 207

The pleasing faith has passed away
In beings, which my visions bore ;
ReaUty has made its prey
Of what seemed beautiful before.

As once with vehement desire
PygmaUon held in warm embrace
The statue, till sensation's fire
Glowed in the marble's kindling face;
I threw the arms of youthful love
Round nature, till I too was blest,
Till she began tb breathe, to move,
To Uve on my poetic breast.

Starting to life, she shared my bliss ;
For me the dumb possessed a voice.
Learned to return me love's warm kiss.
Feel my heart's music, and rejoice.
Then Uved to me the tree, the rose.
Then sang the fountain's silver fall ;
And things, that spiritless repose.
Echoed with joy my spirit's call.

Itself a universe, the breast
Aspired with strong, resistless force,
To act and speak, and onward prest
To join in life's exciting course.

208 TRANSLATIONS.

While in the bud it lay concealed.
The world appeared a boundless scene ;
What have the opening leaves revealed?
How little ! and that little mean !

By daring mind endued with wings,
Blest by his visions false but gay,
Untamed by anxious care, how springs *
The youth along existence* way !
There's nought so lofty, nought so far.
To which his wishes may not rise ;
E'en to the heaven's remotest star.
On wings of bold design he flies.

* How swiftly was I borne along !
And happy feared nor toil nor care !
With winning grace a friendly throng
Before me danced of forms of air ;
Love with sweet looks that ne'er could frown ;
Joy with his golden garlands bright ;
Glory adorned with starry crown ;
And Truth, that blazed in solar hght.

But ah ! how soon these guardians flew
Par from my side, ere life's mid-day ;
The airy band became untrue,
And one by one they turned away.

TRANSLATIONS. 209

His rapid pinions Joy extended ;
The wells of Knowledge all were dry ;
Doubt's heavy clouds round Truth ascended,
And hid her light from mortal eye.

I saw, too, Glory's holy flowers
Round common brows profanely twined ;
And, Love, how swiftly flew thy hours !
How soon I left thy spring behind !
Still and more still the scene became ;
More lonely seemed the rugged way ;
And dying hope a pallid flame
Scarce threw across the darksome way.

Of all that gay and noisy crowd
Will none with faithful fondness wait,
To raise me when by sorrow bowed.
And follow me to death's dark gate ?
O Friendship ! thou my age shalt brighten.
Thou, who dost heal our every woimd,
With love the cares of life dost lighten.
Thou, whom I early sought and found.

And thou, whose spell hke hers can charm
The spirit's storms, beloved Employ ;
Thou, who with strong, unwearied arm.
Dost hopeful raise, but ne'er destroy ;
14

210 TRANSLATIONS.

The building of eternity
Slowly thy patient toil uprears,
Prom time's great debt before we die,
Strikes minutes, hours, and days, and years.

FRIDOLIN, OR THE JOURNEY TO THE FORGE.

SCHILLKB.
I.

A guileless page was Fridolin,

As from my tale ye'll leam ;
He served with heart, that ktiew no sin.

The Countess of Savem.
She was all gentleness to him ;
But any wish of hers, or whim,
The wayward bent of woman's will.
He would have hastened to fulfil.

II.
Prom morning's dawn, when day first shone.

Till evening's twilight died,
He lived for her commands alone,

Yet ne'er was satisfied ;
And if she bade him ** Toil no more,"
His glistening eye with tears ran o'er ;
Nor e'er from labor would he rest,
Till weariness his Umbs opprest.

TRANSLATIONS. 211

III.

Therefore above the servant crowd,

She loved the youth to raise,
While from her beauteous lips there flowed

Incessantly his praise.
Nor of her servants seemed he one ;
Her heart esteemed him as a son ;
And oft her eye reposed with joy
On the sweet features of the boy.

IV.

For this there rose in Robert's breast,

The huntsman, deadly hate ;
His envious bosom never ceased

With malice to dilate.
And to the coimt, whose honest heart
Was open to the traitor's art,
And quickly kindled, he drew nigh.
To plant the seeds of jealousy.

v.

Thus with deceitful words he spake :

" 0 count, I deem you blest ;
No jealous doubts your slumbers break,

Nor haunt your golden rest ;
For you so chaste a spouse possess !
Discretion guards her loveliness ;
And all the wiles of wooing youth
Were vain against her virtue's truths"

212 TRANSLATIONS.

VI.

At this the count with frowning brow

Exclaimed — " What say'st thou, knave ?

I build no trust on woman's vow,
Unstable as the wave.

But though fair words their hearts aUure,

My lady's troth I hold secure ;

Love's eye on her none dare to turn.

Or woo the spouse of Count Savem." —

VII.

The wily keeper speaks — " "lis clear,

Contempt the fool deserves.
Who, bom to serve thee and to fear.

Thus from his duty swerves.
And to the lady he obeys.
An eye of longing dares to raise."
Trembling with wrath the count replies,
" The villain, that hath dared it, dies." —

VIII.

" And can it be ? the pubUc tale

To thee hath ne'er been told ?
Yet what my Lord desires to veil,

My lips shall ne'er unfold." —
" Speak, wretch, or die ; what hast thou seen ? "
Exclaims the count with threatening mien,
" Who hopes her favor to engage ? " —
" I speak, sire, of the fair-hairexl page.

TRANSLATIONS. 213

IX.

The stripling hath a pleasing form."

Thus he deceives his lord,
Whose blood by turns ran cold and warm.

Thrilling at every word.
" And have you truly never known,
That he hath eyes for her alone,
Of you at table hath no care.
But languishes behind her chair ?

X.

Here in these verses is confessed

His passion's bold desire" —
" Confessed !" — " He hath the countess pressed

To love with equal fire.
The lady is discreet and good.
She feared for him your angry mood ;
'Twere useless to repeat the tale ;
For what to you could that avail ? "

XI.

At this the count grew wroth, and rode

To where a forest rose.
And fires in many a furnace glowed ;

There melted iron flows ;
Early and late with zealous speed
The glaring flames his servants feed ;
The sparks ascend ; the bellows play ;
As though the rocks would melt away.

214 TRANSLATIONS.

XII.

There might you see their wondrous force
Both fire and water blend ;

To urge the wheel's revolving course
Their power the torrents lend ;

The works keep up their ceaseless chime ;

The heavy hammers strike in time ;

And e'en the iron pliant grows,

Subdued and shaped by mighty blows.

XIII.

Straight at their master's beck there come
Two servants from their task ; —

" The first, whom I shall send from home
To greet you, and to ask

If ye've obeyed your master well,

Him seize, and throw in yonder hell;

The flaming fiimace be his grave ;

I would not see again the slave."

XIV.

Infernal joy the demons feel.
To hear that dark behest ;

For hardened were their hearts like steel ;
No mercy touched their breast.

Aloft the smoking pile they raise ;

The flames ascend with crackling blaze;

They thirst for crime, and long to slay.

With murderous will, their destined prey.

TBAN8LATION8. 215

XV.

Robert on this his comrade calls.

Who nought of malice knew ;
" Now haste thee to our master's halls ;

He needs thy service true."
The count then spake to Fridolin,
" Straight wend to where my forge's din
Is heard; and of my slaves inquire,
If they've fulfilled their lord's desire." —

XVI.

"'Tis mine," he answers, "to obey,"

And hastes his will to do ;
Then paused — "Perchance my mistress may

Have duties for me too."
Before the countess soon he bows ;
"Forth to the forge thy servant goes ;
Thine is my duty ; lady, say,
Thee can I serve upon the way ? "

xvit.
Thereat the countess called him near,

And spake with gentle tone ;
" The holy mass I long to hear.

But sickness wastes my son.
Go then, my child, and on thy way
For me in still devotion pray ;
With penitence thy sins efface ;
And then for me entreat heaven's grace."

216 TRANSLATIONS.

XVIII.

The sacred charge was doubly sweet;

He rose and journeyed flEust;
Yet through the neighboring village street

He had not fairly passed.
When on his ear distinctly fell
The sacred curfew's mellow peal.
Which summons sinners to repent,
And taste the holy sacrament.

XIX.

" To fly from God were surely sin

When in the road we meet."

He sees the church, and enters in.

Yet hears few coming feet ;
For 'twas the harvest-tide, and then
Its toil detained the husbandmen ;
None came the sacred hynms to sing.
Or chant the mass, or censer swing.

XX.

At once the page resolves to stay

And serve as sacristan ;
" Sure this,*' thought he, " is no delay ;

First serve the Lord, then man."
The belt and stole, which priests should wear.
He hangs upon the priest with care ;
The burnished cups he next displays,
Preserved for mass on holy days.

^

TRANSLATIONS. 217

XXI.

When this with cautious hand was done,

Before the priest he stands ;
Devoutly to the shrine moves on,

The mass-book in his hands.
And right and left he meekly kneels.
And careful at the signal wheels ;
And when the words of " Sanctus " came.
His bell thrice tinkled at the name.

XXII.

Then as the priest with reverence bowed.

Kneeling before the shrine,
And high, with hands uplifted, showed

The Eucharist divine ;
The sacristan, observing well.
Rings loudly with his little bell ;
All cross their brows, their bosoms beat,
And Christ the Saviour kneeling greet.

XXIII.

Thus careful he performed each part

With readiness and skill ;
He knew the sacred rites by heart.

And served with cheerful will ;
Served till the close unwearied thus ;
Till with " Vobiscum Dominus *'
The priest before the people bends,
The holy service blessing ends.

218 TRANSLATIONS.

XXIV.

Then where the priests their vessels kept.

The sacred gear he laid ;
With busy hand the church he swept ;

This done, no longer stayed ;
But now with conscience in repose.
Straight to the forge with speed he goes ;
And yet his heart still bids him say
Twelve Pater-Nosters by the way.

XXV.

And as he sees the curling flames.

And near the workmen stand,
" Have ye obeyed," the youth exclaims,

" Our master's strict command ? "
The hateful demons grin at this,
And pointing to the hot abyss,
" We merit trust, the count will own,
Por nothing's left of flesh or bone."

XXVI.

And swift the nearest pathway home

The page returning took ;
But as his master saw him come.

He gazed with doubting look.
"Whence com'st thou, wretch? I fam would

know." —
" I come from yonder forge." — " Not so ;
Or hast thou loitered by the way ? " —
" My lord, I tarried but to pray.

^

TRANSLATIONS. 219

XXVII.

As from thy face my steps I bent

This very mom, forgive.
To ask my duty first I went

To her, for whom I Uve.
' Go, hear the mass/ my lady said ;
Her words I willingly obeyed ;
And thrice my sacred beads went through
For her salvation and for you."

XXVIII.

The count was rapt in deep amaze,

And horror o'er him fell ;
" What answer, where the forges blaze.

Was made thee ? Quickly tell." —
" They pointed to the curling smoke.
And darkly thus the ruflBans spoke ;
' We merit trust, the count will own.
For nothing's left of flesh or bone.' "

XXIX.

" And Robert ? " cold with curdhng blood

The count impatient cried ;
" This mom I sent him to the wood ;

Hast thou his track espied ?" —
" In field and forest, sire, I've been.
But Robert's footsteps have not seen." —
" Now," cries the count, and looks aghast,
'' Our God himself hath sentence passed."

220 TRANSLATIONS.

XXX.

The count, unused to actions bland,
Beyond his wont grew kind ;

And grasps his fiEdthfiil servant's hand,
And hastes his spouse to find.

" I pray thy &vor for this child ;

No angel is so undefiled ;

The traitor's malice is revealed ;

God and his hosts the guiltless shield.*'

THE DIVISION OF THE SAKTH.

i DOBILIXB*

* Take ye the world," cried Jove from heaven's far height
To mortals ; " take it all to keep, or spend ;
I give it for your heritance and right,
But share it wisely, friend with friend."

To seize his part, in busy haste, uprose
Both young and old, whoever had but hands ;
The hunter through the forest lordly goes.
The fanner claims the frrdt of lands.

His magazines with wares the merchant loads,
The abbot stores the choicest vineyards' wine ;
The king bars up the bridges and the roads.
And loud proclaims — ^The tithe is mine.

TRANSLATIONS. 221

At last, when the division long was o'er.
Prom some far distant spot the poet came ;
He came too late ! for there was nothing more ;
Owners appeared each gift to claim.

" Alas ! Alas ! Shall I then, I of all,
Thy truest offspring, be forgot alone ?"
Thus to the God did he complaining call.
And threw himself before Jove's throne.

" If in the land of dreams thou wouldst delay,"
RepUed the God, " then quarrel not with me ;
Where wast thou when the world was given away ?"
" I was," replied the bard, " with thee.

" Mine eye hung dazzled on thy features bright,
Mine ear upon thy heavens' sweet harmonies ;
Forgive the soul, that blinded with thy Ught,
Lost earth, to revel in the skies."

" What shall I do? " says Jove ; " I've nought to give.
The harvest, market, chase, no more are mine ;
But dost thou wish vrith me in heaven to Uve,
Come when thou wilt, that heaven is thine."

MY CREED.

SOHILLBB.

What's my reUgion ? None of all the sects,
^Vhich thou hast named. " And why not ? " From
rehgion.

222 TRANSLATIONS.

) THE SKEPTICS.

DOHUJUS.

Men now prove all things, searcli within, without ;
Truth! how canst thou escape the fierce pursuit ?
With staves and nets have they gone out to take thee ;
Thou, like a spirit, marchest through the crowd.

KANT AND HIS COMMENTATORS.

SOEDZXEB.

I How one rich man so many beggars feeds I

When monarchs build, the draymen find employ.

COLUMBUS.

SOHILLBB.

Sail, fearless mariner, though slower wits

Speak lightiy of thy daring, and the hands

Of the spent helmsman sink so wearily.

Still to the west ; there shall the shore be found.

Distant, yet by thy reason clearly seen.

Trust in the God that guides thee ; follow still

The world's wide ocean, though its silent waves

Should nought reveal ; for did not yet the land

Exist, e*en now 'twould rise for thee to being.

Nature and genius in eternal league

Are joined ; and one performs, what one has promised.

TRANSLATIONS. 223

THE WORDS OF FAITH.

SOHILLKB.

Three words I repeat ; and their meaning is high ;

From spirit to spirit they go ;
Though with us, they never are seen by the eye ;
Their truth can the heart only know ;
The glory of man overshadowed will be,
When he ceases to cherish and trust in the three.

For Liberty man was created ; in chains

His freedom he never can lose ;
Nor doubt, though the rabble her sanctity stains,
And fools the high watchword abuse ;
Should slaves burst their fetters, be glad without fear ;
Nor tremble at danger when freemen draw near.

And Virtue is more than a perishing sound ;

She can bloom in your deeds while ye live ;
The weakness of mortals your efforts may bound.
Yet man for perfection may strive ;
The wisdom that pride from the learned conceals.
The life of the guileless in action reveals.

And God lives ; his infinite spirit hath power.

Though man's fickle will is but nought ;
High rules above space and the hurrying hour
The Father of life and of thought.
While the world of decay and of changes complains.
Serene 'mid the changes his spirit remains.

224 TRANSLATIONS.

The three words ye should cherish ; their meaning
is high;
From mind be they echoed to mind;
They are with us, though ne'er are they seen by the
eye,
But their witness within us they find.
The glory of man never darkened can be,
So long as he firmly believes in the three.

THE FLOWER ANGELS.

RUBOXSBT.

As delicate forms, as is thine, dearest love.
And beauty like thine have the angels above ;
Yet men cannot see them, tho' often they come
On visits to earth from their heavenly home.

Thou ne'er wilt behold them ; but if thou wouldst know
The houses, wherein, when they wander below.
The angels are fondest of passing their hours,
m tell thee, fair maiden ; they dwell in the flowers.

Each flower, as it blossoms, expands to a tent.

For the house of a visiting angel meant ;

From his flights o'er the earth he may there find repose.

Till again to his sky-built paviUon he goes.

And the angel his resting-place keeps in repair.
As every good man of his mansion takes care ;

TRANSLATIONS. 225

All around he adorns it and colors it well,
And much he's delighted within it to dwell.

True sunshine of gold from the splendor of day
He borrows, his roof all with Ught to inlay ;
The hues of each season to aid him he calls.
And stains with the brightest his bedchamber walls.

The bread angels eat, from the flowers' finest meal
He bakes, so that hunger he never can feel ;
He brews from the dew-drops a drink fresh and good,
And every thing does which a housekeeper should.

And greatly the flowers as they blossom rejoice.
That the angel has made them the home of his choice ;
And when from his roamings the angel ascends,
The flower falls asunder, the stalk downward bends.

If thou, my dear lady, in truth art inclined

The spirits of paradise near thee to find.

Give thought to the flowers, and become their true

lover.
And angels around thee will constantly hover.

A flower do but plant near thy window-glass.
And through it no image of evil can pass ;
When thou goest abroad, on thy breast let appear
A nosegay, and trust me an angel is near.
15

226 TRANSLATIONS.

Do but water the lilies at breaking of day.

Through the hours of the mom thou'lt be fiiirer than

they;
A rose at thy couch for a sentinel keep,
And angels will rock thee on roses to sleep.

No sorrowful dreams can approach to thy bed.
For round thee an angel his sentiy will spread ;
And whatever visions thy watchman to thee
Permits to come in, very good ones they'll be.

When thus thou art kept by a flower-woven spell,
Shouldst thou now and then dream that I love thee

right well.
Be sure that with fervor and truth I adore thee.
Or the angel had ne'er set mine image before thee.

TO A FLOWER.

RiST.

That thou bloomest in colors the fairest,
Tliat the sun paints the garment thou wearest,
That thou'rt splendid in purple aud gold.
Can my Rose without emy behold.

That the bee so often caresses thee,
That the sick man so gratefully blesses thee,
And physicians report thou canst heal.
This my Rose hath no wish to conceal.

TRANSLATIONS. 227

For in these and in aU things beside,
Her perfection can laugh at thy pride ;
Thou art first of the flowers of the field ;.
All that's created to Rose must yield.

Thy fair clothes will wither away ;
Thy bright hues — of what use are they ?
Oft lurks poison thy petals beneath ;
Often thy juices are laden with death.

What is beauty that never can speak ?
What are flowers which any may break?
What is grace, that can carol no song?
Nothing to Rose, to whom hearts belong.

What makes heaven of earthly hours.
What in beauty surpasses the flowers.
What with PhUomers voice may compare.
What is purer than pearls and more rare,

What hath friendliness' winsomest art.
What by virtue can quicken the heart.
What hath attractions that never wiQ fSeule,
Makes my Rose a faultless maid.

A SICILIAN SONO.

Hell

Tell me, whither art thou going,
Where so early, Uttle bee ?

828 TRANSLATIONS.

Still no beam of day is glowing
On the hills so near to thee.

Still the dews of night are sparkling
Every where along the world ;

Heed thee, lest thou injure, darkling,
Thy bright wings, so fine with gold.

See, the languid flowers are sleeping.
Pillowing 'mid the leaves their heads,

SofQy closed their eyeUds keeping.
Rest upon their downy beds.

But still onwards thou art flying.
Onwards still, and far away ;

Tell me, whither art thou hieing.
Little bee, thus ere the day P

Is't for honey ? Why this fleetness ?

Shut thy wings and roam no more ;
I will show thee where its sweetness

Lies in unexhausted store.

Little wanderer, hast thou never
Seen my Nice's beauteous eyes?

On her lips there's honey ever ;
Sweetness there for ever lies.

TRANSLATIONS. 229

On the lip of her, the fairest.

On my lovely maiden's lip.
There is honey, purest, rarest,

Couldst thou there but freely sip.

PERSIAN PROVERB.

HkBD90K«

The diamond's a jewel, in earth though it lie.
And dust still is dust, when 'tis blown to the ed^.

FROM THE ARABIC.

Taabbbta Shebbav.

Taabbeta Sherran wooed a girl of the family of the
Absites. And she, desiring to marry him, appointed
the wedding day — but when he came to her alone, she
changed her mind and rejected him. Then said he,
"What hath changed thee?" She answered: "By
Allah, thy renown is very great, but my family says to
me, what will you do with a husband, who will be
killed to-day or to-morrow, and leave you a widow ? "
At this he turned away and spake these words : —

" Espouse not the chieftain, in conflicts delighting,"
They called to the maiden I panted to wed ;

" When next he shall share in the perils of fighting.
The blade of the sword with his blood shall be fed."

£30 TRANSLATIONS.

Then doubt seized the maiden; she trembled with
sorrow ;
She feared that the brave one who round him had
flung
The night for a robe, slain in battle to-morrow.

Would leave her to mourn as a widow while young.

His passions in slumber but seldom he hushes ;

The wrongs of his sires to avenge is his trade ;
And thirsting for prey like a whirlwind he rushes

To strike his dark foe, in full armor array'd.

To cope with his arm strive the young men, who cherish
A wish for their prowess in war to be known.

And ennoble their tribe ; as beneath him they perish.
They cannot increase the renown he has won.

The caves of wild beasts give him shelter till morning ;

The broods of the forest grow used to his ways ;
And as he goes forth at the light's early dawning

They heed not his presence but fearlessly graze.

They see the young archer who joys not in chases,
Nor loves 'gainst the beasts the sharp arrow to send ;

And oh ! could they warm to affection's embraces.
The hand of affection they'd reach to their friend.

I

TRANSLATIONS. 231

Oft lies he in waiting, then suddenly flashes
With might on the warriors he longs to engage ;

Down, down on his foes from the ambush he dashes,
And ever will dash, till he's chilled thro' with age.

The masters of camels complain they have found him
A plague, ever seizing on herds not his own ;

Yet chase him they dare not when comrades are round
him;
And chase him they dare not, e'en when he's alone.

He, that clings to his enemy, yields up his breath

Or sooner or later on places of death ;
And long should I flourish, well know I, that yet

Death's blade, flashing brightly, must one day be met.

THE MOURNFUL HISTORY OP THE NOBLE WIPE OP
ASAN AOA.

Gk>XTHB.

What SO whitely gleams in yonder wood ?
Is it snow ? or is't the swan's white brood ?
Were it snow, 'twould melt beneath the day ;
Were it swans, they would have flown away.
'Tis not snow, nor swans, that hide the ground ;
Asan Aga's tents are spread around ;
Languishing of wounds he suffers there ;
Mother, sister, to his couch repair ;

1

But liB cbnlied wife

SUfed bjr bssUiil loie, die dm not

Heakd ia§ wounds ; jet oe ke left kb tcm.

To ia§ wife a bard hAtst he mft ;

'^In mj court with none no kx^er wait ;

Thoa shak dwdl no more wiikm mj gvte."

When she heard her husband's stem ooomands.
Smote with grieC the feithful woman stands ;
Sounds of trampBi^ hofse anon were heard.
She fbri^Mded, '^ Asan oomes, my kxd : "
Downward from the tower she runs to kap.
But her two finr dau^iters near her weep ;
Crying, Asan's horses draw not near;
Comes thy brother Pmtafwich here."

And to meet her brother she descends;
Sobbing badly o'er his neck she bends;
** See thy sister's shame ; my knd doth drire
Frmn her hcnne the mother ci these fire/'

Silent was her brother ; forth he drew.
Bound in silk ol deepest scarlet hue.
Her divorce, which, written with due care.
Bids her to her moth^'s house repair.
And dissolves her ancimt nuptial vows.
That she's free to take another spouse.

TBANSLATIONS. 288

When the lady saw the fell divorce,
That dissolved her nuptial vows perforce,
Kissed she first the foreheads of her sons.
Kissed her daughters' cheeks, the lovely ones.
But for grief she cannot turn away
From the babe that in the cradle lay.

And her brother bids the mourner speed.
Swings her lightly on the rapid steed ;
With the trembling lady forth he rode.
Hastening to his fisither's high abode.

Short the time, not seven days o'er them ran.

Short the time, and many a princely man

Woos our lady in her widowed life,

Woos our lady for his wedded wife.

Most renowned, Imoski Cadi wooed ;

Of her brother thus the lady sued ;

" I conjure thee, brother, by thy life

Give me not to be another's wife.

For my poor, beloved children's sake.

Lest the sight of them my heart should break."

But her brother, on her nuptials bent.
Yields not her pure purpose his consent ;
Yet of prayers the good wife makes no end ;
Brother, at the Vast, a message send

234 TEANSLATIOXS.

And Imoski Cadi thus entreat ;
" Thee, the widow doth in friendship greet.
And with reverence doth she earnest pray.
Hither when thy bands attend thy way,
TeD thy train an ample veil to bring.
That my face beneath it covering,
Asan's house concealed I may pass by.
Nor on my dear orphans cast mine eye.''

Scarce this message had the Cadi read.
When he calls the horsemen whom he led.
And to journey towards his bride prepares.
And the veil she wished for, with him bears.

Safely to the princess' house they come ;
Safely turn to gain Imoski's home ;
But when Asan's dwelling they drew nigh,
Lo ! the children saw the train pass by.
Saw their mother from above, and call ;
" Mother, come again to thine own hall ;
With thy children eat the evening meal." —
Then did Asan's spouse deep anguish feel.
And she prays the prince to give command,
That awhile his men and horses stand,
" Till to my dear Uttle ones I bring
Each a gift, my latest offering."

TRANSLATIONS. 235

And they halted at the children's door ;
Gifts she gave these poor ones from her store ;
Gave the boys fine boots all worked with gold ;
Gave the maidens robes, rich to behold ;
To the babe, that in the cradle lay,
Gave a small coat for a future day.

This saw Asan Aga from aside,
" Poor dear little ones," he mournful cried,
" Come to me; your mother's breast is steel,
Firmly locked can no compassion feel."

Asan's spouse heard that, could bear no more.
Pale and trembling sank upon the floor.
And her ransomed soul escaped on high.
When she saw her children from her fly.

MY GODDESS.

GOXTHB.

Who of Heaven's immortal train
Shall the highest prize obtain?
Strife I would with all give o*er,
But there's one I'll aye adore,
Ever new, and ever changing,
Through the paths of marvel ranging.
Dearest in her father's eye,
Jove's own darling, Fantasy.

286 TBANSLATIONS.

For to her, and her alone.
All his secret whims are known ;
And in all her faults' despite
Is the maid her sire's deUght.

Oft with aspect mild she goes,
Decked with liUes and the rose,
Walks among the flowery lands,
Smnmer's insect swarm conmiands.
And for food with honeyed Ups
Dew drops fix)m the blossom sips.

Or with darker mien and hair
Streaming loose in murky air.
With the storm she rushes by.
Whistling, where the crags are high,
And with hues of thousand dyes
Like the late and early skies,
Changes and is changed again,
Fast as moons, that wax and wane.

Him, the ancient sire we'll praise,
Who, as partner of our days.
Hath to mortal man aUied
Such a fair, unfading bride.

For to us alone she's given.
And is bound by bonds of heaven.

TRANSLATIONS. 287

Still to be our faithful bride,
And though joy, or woe betide,
Ne'er to wander from our side.

Other tribes, that have their birth
From the fruitful, teeming earth.
All, through narrow life remain
In dark pleasures, gloomy pain, —
Live their being's narrow round.
To the passing moment bound.
And unconscious roam and feed.
Bent beneath the yoke of need.

But to us with kind intent
He his froUc daughter sent ;
Nursed with fondest tenderness.
Welcome her with love's caress ;
And take heed, that none but she
Mistress of the mansion be.

And of Wisdom's power beware.
Lest the old stepmother dare
Rudely harm the tender fidr.

Yet I know Jove's elder child.
Graver, and serenely mild.
My belov'd, my tranquil friend ;
From me never may she wend ;

GOETHB.

288 TRANSLATIONS.

She, that knows with ill to cope,
And to action urges, — Hope

THE VIOLET.

A violet blossomed on the green,
With lowly stem, and bloom unseen ;
It was a sweet, wee flower.
A shepherd maiden came that way
With hghtsome step and aspect gay.
Came near, came near.
Came o'er the green with song.

Ah ! thought the violet, might I be
The fairest flower on all the lea.
Ah ! but for one brief hour ;
And might be plucked by that dear maid,
And gently on her bosom laid.
Ah but, ah but,
A few dear moments long.

Alas ! the maiden as she passed.
No eye upon the violet cast ;
She crush'd the poor, wee flower ;
It sank, and dying heaved no sigh,
And if I die, at least I die
By her, by her,
Beneath her feet I die.

TRANSLATIONS. 239

HOPE.

SOHILLEB.

Man loves of a better existence to dream,

That may gladden a coming race ;
He sees the bright goal, and its glittering beam

He follows in restless chase.
The world may grow old, and grow youthful again.
But hopes in the future unclouded remain.

'Tis by hope that man into life is led ;

She flutters round boyhood's bloom ;
O'er youth all her brilliant enchantments are spread ;

She sleeps not with age in the tomb ;
Though life's weary labors are closed in the grave.
Still o'er it the branches of hope greenly wave.

'Tis no vain illusion from folly that came.

To flatter and cheat the mind,
That man, as all hearts in their fervor proclaim.

For a happier world is designed ;
And ne'er will the voices within us deceive
The reason that hopes, or the souls that believe.

SONG OF THE CAPTIVE COUNT.

GrOETHB.

Count.
A flower, that's wondrous feur I know.
My bosom holds it dear.

240 TRANSLATIONS.

To seek that flower I long to go.
But am imprison'd here.
Tis no light grief oppresses me ;
For in the days my steps were free,
I had it always near.

Far round the tower I send mine eye.
The tower so steep and tall ;
But nowhere can the flower descry
From this high castle wall ;
And him who^ bring me my desire.
Or be he knight, or be he squire.
My dearest friend ITl call.

Rose.

My blossoms near thee I disclose.
And hear thy wretched pUght ;
Thou meanest me, no doubt, the rose.
Thou noble, hapless knight.
A lofty mind in thee is seen.
And in thy bosom reigns the queen
Of flowers, as is her right.

Count.
Thy crimson bud I duly prize
In outer robe of green ;
For this thou'rt dear in maiden's eyes,
As gold and jewels' sheen ;

TRANSLATIONS. 241

Thy wreath adorns the fairest brow,
And yet the flower — ^it is not thou.
Whom my still wishes mean.

Lily.
The little rose has cause for pride.
And upwards aye will soar ;
Yet am I held by many a bride
The rose's wreath before.
And beats thy bosom faithfully,
And art thou true, and pure as I,
Thou'lt prize the lily more.

Count
I call myself both chaste and pure.
And free from passions low ;
And yet these walls my limbs immure
In loneliness and woe.
Though thou dost seem, in white array'd.
Like many a fair and spotless maid.
One dearer thing I know.

Pink.

And dearer I, the pink, must be.

And me thou sure dost choose.

Or else the gardener ne'er for me

Such watchful care would use ;

A crowd of leaves in circling bloom !

And mine through life the sweet perfrune,

And all the thousand hues I
16

242 TRANSLATIONS.

Count.
The pink can no one justly slight.
The gard'ner's fisivorite flower;
He sets it now beneath the light.
Now shields it from its power.
Yet 'tis not pomp, which o'er the rest
In splendor shines, can make me blest
It is a still small flower.

Violet
I stand concealed, and bending low.
And do not love to speak;
Yet will I, as 'tis fitting now.
My wonted silence break.
For if 'tis I, thou gallant man.
Thy heart desires, thine, if I can.
My perfumes all 111 make.

Count
The violet I esteem indeed.
So modest and so kind ;
Its fragrance sweet, yet more I need.
To soothe my anguish'd mind.
To you the secret I confess ;
Here 'mid this rocky dreariness,
My love I ne'er shall find.

The truest wife by yonder brook
Will roam the moumftd day.
And hither cast the anxious look.

TRANSLATIONS. 248

Long as immured I stay.
Whene'er she breaks a small blue flower,
And says, Eorget me not I the power
I feel, though £ar away.

Yes, e'en though far, I feel its might,
For true love joins us twain.
And therefore *mid the dungeon's night
I still in life remain..
And sinks my heart at my hard lot,
I but exclaim. Forget me not !
And straight new life regain.

JOT,

GOXTHB.

Where yonder fountain streams.

What fluttering insect gleams ?
• She changes oft her hues,

As the chameleons use ;

Now white, now dark she seems ;

Now red, now blue,

Now blue, now green ;

How bright must she appear.

Could I behold her near !
The Libellula sings, and flits.
In circles soars, nor rests her wing. —
Hist 1 on the willow now she sits —
And now I've caught the beauteous thing ;

244 TRANSLATIONS.

And gaze; — butahl what meets my view P
Her brilliant tints a toucli destroys.
And leaves a dark and cheerless blue.
This is thy fate, anatomist of thy joys.

THE DIVINE

GOXTHI.

Let man, for highest ends designed,
Be just in action, generous, kind ;
He differs, by his heavenly birth.
From all the tribes that roam the earth.

Hail to the spirits 1 the unknown.
Sublime, revealed by Faith alone;
Man, firom his own example, learns
To trust in what no eye discerns.

Unfeeling nature, ruthless, cold,

Moves in her orbit, as of old ;

On just and unjust shines the sun,

And bright to all, who boldly run

Through crimes, and them who have no stain.

Glimmer the moon and all her train.

Thunder and hail, the stream, the breeze.
Rush onward in their course, and seize.
Resistless, as they haste along.
One and another — ^weak and strong.

TRANSLATIONS. 245

And Fortune blindly gropes her way
Amid the crowd, nor fears to lay
Her hand upon the guileless boy.
With curling locks, (or to destroy
Or bless, she recks not,) and e'en now
She smites the aged sinner's brow.

That mighty law, whose iron sway
Is boundless, endless, we obey ;
And, following nature's changeless will.
Existence' high designs fulfil.

And man can do, and man hath done
The impossible ; 'tis he alone
Continuance can to moments lend.
Compare and choose the nobler end.

'Tis he that gives the wise their meed,
He may avenge the evil deed.
Heal, save, and to good ends unite
The wayward force that strays firom right.

And we revere the immortal powers.
As if their spirits were like ours;
And they but widely do, what here
The best have done, in narrower sphere.

Let man .be generous, just, and kind.
Unwearied do, with willing mind.

■ (I

246 TRANSLATIONS.

Whatever is useful, pure, and right ;
Thus will he leave an image bright
Of beings, whom our hearts e'en here,
Forebode, oommuBe with, and revere.

THE SALUTATION OP A SPIRIT.

[Goethe illustrates by an allegory the vanity of life.
The ancient castle stands in its majesly ; the heroes,
who have ruled in it and returned to it in victory, are
now but shadows ; the last survivor of the house is
just on the point of commencing in his turn the unsuc-
cessful pursuit after glory and happiness, resolved to
run his course fearlessly and in the spirit of trust.]

High on the castle's ancient walls
The warrior's shade appears ;
Who to the bark that's passing calls.
And thus its passage cheers.

Behold 1 these sinews once were strong;
This heart was firm and bold ;
'Mid war and glory, feast and song.
My earthly years were told.

Restless through half of life I ran.

In half have sought for ease ;

What then? Thou bark! that sails with man

Haste, haste to cleave the seas.

/

STUDIES IN HISTORY.

ECONOMY OP ATHENS.

Tike can never efface the interest of mankind in the
nation which set the example of intrusting supreme
power to the people. The democracy of Athens, with
all the imperfections in every part of its pubUc service,
with the abuses attending its finances, and the corrup-
tion which finally turned the elective franchise into a
source of personal revenue, maintains its dignity in the
eyes of the world ; for there the elements of civil liberty
were first called into action.

We are not the blind admirers of the Athenian
conmionwealth. No tongue can adequately praise
many of the results of that State ; and it would also
be difficult fitly to display the deficiencies in its organ-
ization, and the gross injustice of its foreign poKcy.
Our own confederacy does not more surpass the
Grecian in the extent of territory over which its

248 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

liberties are diffiised, than in the excellence of the
details of its laws. It is the genius of our institutions
to leave eveiy thing to find its natural level, to throw no
obstacles in the way of the free progress of honest in-
dustry, to melt all the old castes of society into one
mass, to extend the rights of equal citizenship with
perfect Uberality, and to prevent eveiy thing like a
privileged order in the State. The Athenian conmion-
wealth was, on the contraiy, eminently artificial in its
character ; it conceded with a chary hand the advan-
tages of citizenship to the strangers resident on its soil.
The elective franchise was, mainly, an inherited dig-
nity; the government was a species of midtitudinous
aristocracy, where the legislators by birthright, though
numerous, were limited, and pohtical power was vested
in the hands of a special body of men, who consimied
what they did not produce. To this circumstance are to
be attributed the greatest abuses in ancient Attica.
The self-same principles in himian nature, which in
England protect the hierarchy and the nobility, pro-
duced in Athens pubUc festivals at the common cost,
and led the multitude to get their Uving by enacting
laws in the assembly, or interpreting them in the halls
of judicature.

The student, who attempts to look minutely into
the secrets of the classic world, is baffled at every effort.
The accounts are almost always imperfect, sometimes
contradictory ; and the inquirer listens to an echo, that

ECONOMY OP ATHENS. 249

comes but faintly from centuries so remote. Many parts
of Grecian history are preserved in the most graphic
sketches, yet the interior of a Grecian State is known
only in its leading features. The picture is exhibited
in a dim and wavering Kght ; and can we wonder, that
so diflferent views have been taken of it? Is it strange,
that the scholar has invested Greece with the most
brilliant colors which imagination can lend P that the
glories of Marathon and Plataeae have shed a lustre over
centuries, when patriotism was nearly extinct? The
mind has been so filled with the productions of Grecian
art, that attention has been diverted from ordinary
concerns.

The admirable work of the learned Boeckh on the f
PubUc Economy of the Athenians illustrates the pecu-
liar excellence of the Germans in critical researches. It
contains not a word of vague declamation from be-
ginning to end. No topic is avoided because it is
difficult, nor neglected because it is minute. Instead
of theories we have a series of facts, selected from the '
whole circle of classic Uterature. Almost every surviv-
ing author is made to contribute some instruction ; the
orators most of all. Nothing seems to have escaped the
patient labors of this distinguished Hellenist. Every
passage, from which an inference could be wrung, is
made the subject of his consideration ; and in this way
he has succeeded in illustrating the employments of
every-day life in the best days of Athens. His investiga-

250 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

tions have never been baffled except by the want of suffi-
cient materials. He has done all that was possible ;
/ but to represent life as it was in the happiest age of
the city of Minerva, imagination has yet to fill up the
outline; and the jests of the comic writers, and the
anecdotes of the lovers of marvels, though fruitful
sources of inference, tempt curiosity without fully
satisfying it.

A reference to Attica recalls all our classic asso*
dations, and concentres them

^^ Where on the ^gean shore a cily stands,

Built nobly ; pure the air, and light the soil ;

Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts

And eloquence."
It would seem as if there the passion for gain had
been lost in the strife for glory ; as though no avarice
but that of praise had been domesticated. Who asks,
out of what fund the Parthenon was built ? or inquires
into the cost of its sculptures ? or is curious to know
the income of Socrates, and at what rates of interest
his Uttle patrimony may have been lent ? Who wishes
to ascertain how much would have constituted an inde-
pendent fortune in the days of Lycurgus, the Athenian
financier? who demands if the Athenians practised
free trade ?

And yet in Athens, commerce was active ; manu-
factures were not neglected; houses were built to let;
there were no joint-stock companies, yet insurance was

I

ECONOMY OF ATHENS. 251

not unknown ; there were no bonks of circuktion, yet
money-lenders abounded. Following the guidance of
Boeckh, we intend to enter into some homely state-
ments respecting life and business at Athens, such as
can neither kindle the imagination nor refine the taste,
but may yet throw light on an important chapter in
the history of the human race. Contentment with
our own poUtical condition will certainly be increased
by a near contemplation of the free States of antiquity.

THE SUPPLY OF GOLD AND SILVER.

The ancients did not make a separate science of
political economy. Their treatises upon politics touch
upon it but incidentally ; and therefore information on
the condition of their finances must be gathered piece-
meal, and by inductions.

The resources of Athens in its earUer days can
scarcely merit attention ; and after the loss of its inde-
pendence, the inquiry would be less productive of
interest or instruction. Our discussion will chiefly
have reference to the time following the Persian wars,
and before the aggrandizement of Alexander.

In the early period of Grecian history, the quantity
of the precious metals increased very slowly. But
between the age of Solon and Demosthenes, such a
change was wrought by the nearer connection with
the East, that prices were affected in the proportion of

262 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

one to five; a change rapid beyond any thing in
modem history. In the days of Croesns gold coidd
hardly be purchased any where in Hellas. It was
more abundant in Africa and especially in Asia, where
the sands of Colchis, and the streams of Factolus
glittered with treasure. The fiable surrounded Midas
with nothing else ; and history keeps the record of the
amiable Uberality as well as the hoarded treasures, and
pious offerings of Croesus P The master of CelsBuse, a
town near the sources of the Maeander, himself pos-
sessed about fifteen millions of dollars in gold. The
booty of Cyrus in Asia Minor was incalculably great.
The revenues of Darius, after defraying all the expenses
of the provinces and theii satraps, amounted annually
to $12,191,400. India was ever famous for its wealth
in valuable ores ; and the tale of busy ants, that dug
for gold, is an allegory on the productiveness of her
mines.

The circulating medium did not increase in propor-
tion with the quantity of bullion. The temples and
the pubUc coffers were provided by a prudent super-
stition or a grasping despotism with immense treasures
in the precious metals, either in massive bars, or
formed into works of art*. The coinage was limited
by the seeming wants of commerce. Even in Greece
immense simis lay in deposit. The citadel of Athens
had a strong box with 87,300 dollars in cash, besides
many vessels of silver and gold. The treasures of

ECONOMY OF ATHENS. 253

Delphi are notorious. The gifts of Croesus alone
amounted to not less than $3,600,000. The wealth
of the consecrated national isle increased with the na-
tional victories. The Persian king entered on the
invasion of Greece with one thousand two hundred
camels laden with money and precious things ; all of
which became the prey of the victors. When the
Fhocians, of a later age, laid sacrilegious hands on the
treasures of Delphi, they coined fix)m them about
$9,000,000 in value.

The currency of Greece received further additions
fix)m the system of bribery practised by FhiUp ; but
after the conquest of Asia by Alexander, coin flowed
in upon Europe in still broader channels. The trea-
sures which he found collected in the Persian empire
were very considerable. The amount taken at Susa
and Persis was $45,000,000, at Pasargada $5,400,000,
and at PersepoUs $108,000,000. The sum amassed
at Ecbatana, is said by Strabo, no contemptible au-
thority, to have amounted to $162,000,000.

Alexander's Uberality corresponded with this im-
mense wealth. The expenses of his table were $1,500
daily ; and he paid the debts of his soldiers, amounting
to about $8,883,000. The funeral ceremonies of
Hephaestion are said to have cost $10,800,000. The
grateful monarch deemed $720,000 no unreasonable
appropriation to further the investigations of Aristotle
in Natural History ; and it was an offer of $900,000

264 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

whicli Phocion refused. His yearly revenue from Asia
was $27,000,000 ; and he left a treasure of no more
'than $45,000,000.

His satraps must have been very rich. Harpalus,
who fled to Athens, was estimated to have amassed
$4,600,000, though he declared in Greece, that he had
but $674,000.

The wealth of the successors of Alexander was
equally extraordinary. A single festival of the Ptol-
emies cost $2,000,000 ; and, at the lowest computa-
tion, the treasure left by Ptolemy Philadelphus amount-
ed to the enormous sum of $166,000,000. Some
estimate it four times as high. It is difficult to beUeve
the account, but not impossible. Egypt was at that
time the richest country in the world ; and had almost
a monopoly of the commerce with the East. Nor is it
half so strange, as that the debt of a modem nation
should have grown to be four thousand millions of
dollars. The revenue from the customs in Egypt was
$13,000,000 annually. The annual taxes in Codo-
Syria, Phenicia, Judea, and Samaria, were fanned out
for more than $14,000,000.

The precious metals existed in very great abun-
dance in the Levant, but the custom of collecting great
masses of these treasures, tended to prevent the pro-
portionate increase of the circulating medium. So
many temples, so many cities, so many provincial
satraps, so many despotic princes withdrew the coin

ECONOMY OP ATHENS. 256

from circulation to reserve it in deposits, that prices
were not reduced in the degree which we might have
inferred from the mention of such enormous sums.
Great quantities also existed in the shape of works of
art ; and the shrines of many a Grecian Deity were
adorned with images and costly vessels wrought out of
" barbaric gold.*'

The amount of the coinage of Athens has been
variously estimated. The basis of calculation is the
weight of such |)ieces of money as have been preserved.
We find that as near an approximation as we can
make, gives fifteen cents for the drachma, and of course
for the mina $15, and $900 for the talent This is the
basis which we follow. It is a Uttle more than the one
usually given in EngUsh books ; yet a UtUe below the
calculations of Barthelemy. An oholus is of course
taken to be two cents and a half.

The Greeks reckoned according to drachmas; as
the French according to francs. The usual idea has
been, as to the difference between ancient and modem
prices, that one dollar was worth in the best days of
Athens what ten dollars are now. Boeckh makes the
difference no greater than as one to three. We think
that he has not reduced it unreasonably. If prices at
modem Athens or at Naples are compared with the
statement which we shall presently give, the view of
the distinguished Hellenist will probably be confirmed.

The Athenian coinage, to which we have alluded,

256 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

was the one established by Solon. Before his time the
drachma was worth more. Out of sevenly-two and a
half drachmas of the old coin, he made one hundred.
In this change, creditors as well as debtors acquiesced.

The value of gold, as compared with silver, varied
with times and places. It was usually considered to be
as ten to one. In the time of Plato, it was as twelve to
one ; Herodotus says as thirteen to one. In the Bospho-
rus, in the age of Demosthenes, it was as fourteen to one.
Among the Romans, in the year 564 of Rome, that is,
190 years before Christ, one third of a sum of money
paid by the ^toUans was taken in gold, at the rate of
one for ten, to the grievance of the iEtolians. Under
Caesar, the gold from Gaul reduced the rate so that it
became as one to eight and thirteen-fourteenths ; while
in the fifth century of the Christian era, it was as high
as one to eighteen.

The price of gold advanced in Greece with the
progress of business. It was much used in making
remittances. Soldiers were paid in it; and Sparta
hoarded it in vast sums, never to be expended but for
warlike purposes.

Gold coin was early in use. Croesus coined the
golden stater, Darius, the son of Hystaspis, coined
darics of pure gold, equal in weight to thirty cents in
silver, and current for three dollars. Five therefore
made a m.ina; three hundred a talent. The golden
darics were favorite coins in Hellas.

ECONOBiT OP ATHENS. 257

Some of the Grecian States had a debased coinage
for domestic circulation. Even the Athenians once en-
gaged in that dishonest process, but it was soon put
down by pubhc opinion ; and the coin of Athens main-
tained in conmierce a high character for intrinsic value.

BUSINESS IN ATHENS.

The nearest approximation we have been able to
make to the contents of Attica, would allow to that
coimtry, including Salamis and Helena, no more than
from 640 to 656 square geographical miles. The an-
cients called Athens the most populous city of Greece.
Its inhabitants were composed of three separate
classes; citizens, resident strangers, and slaves. Of
the former, the average number was 20,000. Allowing
the proportion of 4^ to include the women and minors,
we shall have 90,000 as the number of the free native
inhabitants of Attica. A similar mode of calculation
gives 45,000 for the number of free strangers, whom
business or pleasure had domicihated. The census
taken by Demetrius gives 400,000 slaves. If we
consider this estimate as excessive, the number of slaves
may still have been 365,000. Thus 90,000 citizens,
45,000 sojourners, and 365,000 slaves, in all 500,000
souls, may have occupied the soil of Attica.

The free population was to the slave about as one
to four. The surprising disproportion between the
17

258

STUDIES IN HISTORY.

free and the slave population is corroborated by
circumstantial as well as direct evidence. Every
body was served by slaves; even the poorer citizen
owned some miserable drudge. The manufactories
were supplied by them; the rich had throngs of
attendants ; some philosophers were not content with
less than ten. The father of Demosthenes employed
more than fifty in his business, beside the female
slaves of his household. Plato says, that rich men
often had fifty slaves.

This immense nimiber of slaves left the free citi-
zens of Attica no occupation but poUtics. They were
literally crowded out of every other pursuit. Thus the
Athenians liyed either on the revenues derived from
their possessions, or by serving in the courts and
popular assemblies, or by pursuing some of those
nobler arts, which genius exercised, and the popular
pride cultivated and gratified.

Athens had 10,000 houses. Fourteen souls to a
house would seem too large an allowance; and yet
many of the houses were built on purpose to be occu-
pied by several famiUes. The mining district was also
very populous. The harbor of the Piraeeus was likewise
crowded with tenements. Allow then for the mining
district 20,000, for the city 140,000, for the harbor
40,000, and we shall have left for the country 300,000
souls ; or about 500 to the square geographical mile.
The number seems incredibly large; it is still more

£CONOMT OF ATHENS. 259

diJflBcult to disbelieve the estimate. We must remem-
ber, that Attica was the head of a nmnber of States,
the mistress of the sea, and the territory in which
wealth, manufactures and business were concentrated.

Its soil was not unproductive. The mild climate
ripened all excellent fruits ; the arts of agriculture
were greatly advanced ; the oil of Attica is famous even
to this day ; and its classic hills, of which every peak
has been the haunt of a god, or the theme of a poet,
are still crowned with rows of oUves ;

" And still his honeyed wealth Hymettus yields."
Attica did not abound in horses. At the battle of
Marathon there was no cavalry. The fisheries were
good ; the mines of silver productive ; the quarries of
marble, which stiU gleam in the glare of the bright
day, even then constituted an important article of
export.

The mechanic arts were originally in low repute.
None of the ancient nobility were willing to engage in
them; but the mechanics afterwards gained great
power in the commonwealth, and Cleon the tanner
was among the favored successors of Pericles. Yet
manufactures were liberally encouraged. Freedom of
competition was permitted; strangers thronged to
Attica to engage in business, and their industry fur-
nished a large amount of exports. Prices were kept
up by the great foreign demand, and the high rates
of interest exacted by the capitalist rendered large

260 STUDIES IN BISTORT.

profits necessary. Great quantities of anns, various
kinds of cutlery, and cloths were exported.

Attica was thus enabled to procure from abroad
the products which her own soil could not furnish in
sufficient abundance. No law prohibited the exporta-
tion of specie. On the contrary, the. purity of the
Attic coinage often made its export advantageous ;
the want of bills of exchange frequently rendered it
necessary. In the Piraeeus, as in the harbor of our own
splendid commercial emporium, the produce of every
clime was to be found. The dominion of the sea, says
Xenophon, secured to the Athenians the sweets of the
world. Nor would the Athenian ships in point of size
have suffered fix)m a comparison with the New York
packets. Demosthenes speaks of one, which carried
three hundred men, besides its cargo, slaves, and com-
plement of sailors.

That honorable emplojmaent, which has such an
absorbing charm to the lovers of inteUigence, — ^that
trade, which is emphatically the trade, did not
flourish of yore in the city of Minerva. There was
indeed a book-maker in Athens ; and books were ex-
ported even across the Euxine ; but they were chiefly
blank books ; the day of glory did not dawn on the
trade till the reign of Augustus. The sale of manu-
scripts for profit was so uncommon in the time of
Plato, that Hermodorus of Sicily, the oldest bookseller
of whom we read, and who sold the writings of his

ECONOMY OP ATHENS. 261

illustrious contemporary, came to be a proverb. In the
youth of Zeno, however, there were some incipient
establishments for vending books in Athens.

The credit system, so important in modem com-
merce, was but partially understood by the ancients.
Hence there were none of those commotions and pres-
sures in the money-market, to which our cities are ex-
posed. The indorser was bound for a year. The laws
for collecting debts were very rigid ; and the rights of
capitalists were guarded with great strictness. The
rich were taxed, and taxed heavily; but they were
well protected. One class of frauds on the creditor
was punished with death. When money was lent, and
the proceeds of a voyage pledged as collateral security,
if the debtor secretly disposed of them to the injury
of his creditor, life was forfeited.

Commerce was suspended, or was at least inactive
in the winter season. That, therefore, was the time for
the sessions of the court which had maritime jurisdic-
tion. If a cause was not brought to an issue, it lay
over to the next winter. But at a later time, the law
assigned a month as the period within which an action
was required to be decided.

Commercial agents or consuls were not unknown.
The Athenians hardly had a systematized tariff; or
rather, their position was such as to render the adop-
tion of a protecting system wholly useless. The chief
conunercial regulations related to the importation of

262 STUDIES IN HISTOEY.

com ; of which great supplies were annually required
firom abroad. There also occurred cases, where the
sale of a monopoly was made an expedient for obtain-
ing revenue. But if Athens had no prohibitory duties,
because the first nmnufacturing district could defy
competition, it was not so with her neighbors, -^gina
and Argos both became jealous of the wealth of Athens,
and the introduction of Attic manufactures was pro-
hibited by their laws.

The dominion of the sea was converted by Athens
into a despotism. She understood, no less than
modem England, the dismal doctrines of blockade;
and submission was almost the only security for a
commercial city. If a ship hoisted an independent
flag, it was sure to be pillaged by the Athenian
corsairs. Her maritime courts were as ready as ever
were those of the EngUsh to sustain the claim of the
privateer ; and it was equally difficult to get a decree
reversed, after a ship had been once condemned.

In the domestic market, the retail-trade was open
to all citizens ; foreigners might also come into compe-
tition; though a tax, or caution-money, was exacted
of them.

The gains of mercantile operations were far greater
than at present. Yet it was unusual for a ship to
return with its capital doubled ; a result not at all un-
common in the early stages of our own republic. A
Samian ship, which made for its owners a gain of

ECONOMY OF ATHENS. 263

$54,000 in one voyage, was considered by Herodotus
something so extraordinary, that he has embahned the
memory of it.

PRICES.

The fertility of the southern regions and the diffi-
culty attending the exports to remote nations, re-
duced the price of many commodities of easy produc-
tion. Athens was a city, in which Uving was regarded
as expensive. We shall give some data in confir-
mation of this opinion. But the low cost of some
articles, as compared with present prices, is often
to be attributed to a change in the state of the
markets, as much as to a change in the value of
money.

The nearest possible approximation gives thirty
dollars as the average price of an acre of good land
in Attica. In this computation, we allow four plethra
to the acre ; which is nearly exact. Yet landed estates
were small and were greatly subdivided. Alcibiades
inherited no more than seventy acres ; and Phaenippus,
who owned three hundred and sixty, was esteemed an
immense landholder.

In consequence of the great extent of Athens, all
the land was not occupied. The houses were un-
sightly; the streets narrow and crooked; and the
Piraeeus was the only regularly built part of the city.

264 STUDIES IN HISTOEY.

The upper stories often overhung the street ; and stair-
cases were generally on the outside. Private houses
were often built of unbumt brick. The whole expense
of building was inconsiderable. The prices of houses
varied from forty-five dollars to one thousand eight
hundred, according to their size, situation, and quaUty.
The latter price was unusually high ; half the sum
would purchase a very decent dwelling-house.

An able-bodied slave, not possessed of peculiar
. sldll, was worth not far from twenty dollars. The
price varied, according to his health and age, from
seven to thirty dollars. This proves how absurd, to say
nothing of its immorality, is the use of slave-labor in a
temperate clime. The labor of the slave would, as the
price proves, yield but little beyond his own support.
Yet a good mechanic was worth much more. The
better slaves, employed by the father of Demosthenes
in the manufacture of swords, were worth on an
average about seventy-five dollars ; and that sum was
no unusual price for a skilful workman. The divi-
dends on the establishment of Demosthenes amounted
to a httle less than sixteen per cent, annually; but
another branch of his business yielded him an annual
profit of thirty per cent.

A good horse was worth about forty-five dollars ;
but a handsome saddle, or carriage horse, would very
readily command one hundred and eighty dollars. Yet
who can set a limit to luxury in horses ? It may be

ECONOMY OF ATHENS. 265

said of human nature, as of youth, gaudet equis.
Bucephalus brought nearly twelve thousand dollars.
The price of a pair of mules was from eighty to a
hundred and twenty dollars. In the good days of
Solon, before the precious metals were plenty, the pious
devotee could purchase an ox for the altar with sev-
enty-five cents. But when Athens had grqwn rich,
the best beeves sold for seven and a half or even eleven
and a half dollars. A hecatomb cost, in one instance,
seven hundred and sixty-seven dollars ; in another,
eleven thousand and fifty-eight dollars. It is men-
tioned as one of the expensive fooleries of Alci-
biades, that he gave one thousand and fifty dollars for
a dog.

The com laws involve a great question in the
politics of Athens. Attica was by no means able to
supply its own demands for domestic consumption.
The residue was received partly fix)m the Thracian
Chersonesus, partly from Pontus. Hence we see how
important was the possession of Byzantium to Athens.
There is reason to believe, that the annual importation
of bread-stuffs equalled one and a half milhon of
bushels. No com was allowed to be exported; no
ship laden with it could touch at an Attic port, with-
out selling at least two thirds of its cargo. The laws
threw hindrances in the way of buying up all that was
in the market ; the quantity which might be purchased
at once was limited, and the retailer was restricted to a

266 STUDIES IN BISTORT.

profit of less than two cents on a bushel. All attempts
to forestall and monopolize were prohibited, under the
penalty of death. Yet the oppression of the com
merchants was very great, in spite of the severity
of the laws, or perhaps in consequence of them.

As to prices, under Solon a bushel of wheat was
worth ten cents ; from 390 to 380 years before Christ,
about thirty cents ; in the age of Demosthenes, half a
dollar was esteemed a moderate demand.

The bakers of Athens carried their art to a high
degree of perfection ; but we have no direct criterion
to decide how much the good housekeepers of classic
name were obliged to pay for their loaves. The price
of com furnishes some means of judging ; the dispro-
portion, however, between the price of wheat and of
bread must have been greater than at present, in con-
sequence of the high rates of interest.

The metretres of wine held about thirty-five quarts,
or (to state its contents exactly) 35 1452-10,000
quarts. The low price of wine in the ancient world is
astonishing. That produced in Attica, sold for less than
two cents a quart ; and very tolerable wine was often
sold for half that sum. This proves, also, that in the
main the Athenians were not an intemperate race. The
Chian wine was worth forty-five cents a quart. In
upper Italy when a bushel of wheat brought ten cents,
a gallon of wine cost less than one.

SWeet oil was worth a little more than sixty cents

ECONOMY OP ATHENS. 267

a gallon. Salt was easily imported into Athens ; it
was also manufactured. Of its price nothing is
known. Timber for building was imported ; but coals
and firewood were sent into the city on asses. Thirty
cents were asked for the quantity which an ass would
carry.

The style of hving was as unequal as were the
degrees of wealth and extravagance. Alexander's
table cost for himself and his suite $1,500 daily,
and the miser in Theophrastus allowed his wife but
nine mills. The term opson embraced every thing but
bread; and seven or eight cents were considered a
small provision for it. Yet a slave in Terence buys a
meal for his old master for two and a half cents ; and
the lawyer Lysias complains of the guardian, who
charged for the ojpson of two boys and a Utile girl, the
extravagant sum of a New York shilling. The Athe-
nians were very fond of fish ; and a great deal of salt-
fish was imported from Pontus and even from Cadiz.

The ancient world was ruled by the same human na-
ture as the modem. The Wellington boots of modem
day remind us of the Alcibiades boots, and the Iphi-
crates shoes of antiquity. A good cloak might cost one
dollar and eighty cents ; and a dandy was wiUing to
give three dollars for a coat ; evidently, however, from a
fashionable tailor. A good pair of woman's shoes cost
no more than thirty cents. A very showy pair of
men's shoes may have cost one dollar and twenty cents.

268 STUDIES IN HISTOET.

Ointments were exceedingly expensive. The more
precious kinds brought from fifty dollars to one hun-
dred for the giU.

There are no sufficient data on which to estimate
the cost of a ship. As to productiveness, we find that
the com ship, Isis, of immense burden, yielded annu-
ally for freight, $10,800.

The amount necessary for the maintenance of a
family, is not easily established. Socrates is supposed
to have Uved upon an income of seventy-five dollars ;
but then, his manner of Uving was inferior to that of
the slaves. His coat was old and shabby, and he wore
the same garment both winter and summer ; he went
barefoot ; his chief food was bread and water ; and as
he engaged in no kind of business to mend his estate
or increase his income, it is not wonderful that his wife
scolded often. Demosthenes, his sister, and their
mother, paid for their board $105 for a year; and
provided the house into the bargain. A young man,
Mantitheus, could be educated and supported for $108
annually. The accounts furnish no means of arriving
at a definite conclusion. Who would limit at the pres-
ent day the sum with which it is possible to preserve
Kfe?

Death brought heavy expenses in its train. The
income of years was lavished upon the expenses of a
funeral ; which amounted to a sum varying from $45
to $1800.

ECONOMY OF ATHENS. 269

The working classes received but moderate compen-
sation. The great nmnber of slaves, who came into
competition for labor, reduced the price exceedingly.
Mere manual labor could be procured for ten cents a
day ; that seems to have been the lowest rate, and is
not lower than the present price of labor in many parts
of Europe.

The fares in travelling were very small. From -^gma
to the Piraeeus, a distance of sixteen miles, the fare was
but five cents. From Egypt to Pontus, not more than
thirty cents. This price is inexplicably low. A soldier
in the infantry received for pay and rations for himself
and attendant, thirty cents daily; the officers twice,
and the generals only four times as much. Here is a
great contrast with modem usage.

Pubhc physicians were sometimes appointed. Hip-
pocrates is said to have received a stipend from Athens,
and to have been physician to the State. Democedes
in the 60th Olympiad, about 538 years before Christ,
received at iEgina $900. He was invited to Athens
with a salary of $1,500 ; but Polycrates of Samos se-
cured him for $1,800. In those days money was still
scarce.

The stars at the theatres received enormous com-
pensation. The highest sum mentioned, is $900 for
two days ; which would nearly satisfy our most popu-
lar players.

Protagoras, the Abderite, began teaching for mo-

270 nUDTMB IS HUVOKT.

nej. He demanded jfor a oompkle ooune, $1,500.
GufTffBB reqimed as mocfa, yet died pocnr. S<Hiie, find-
ing the charges hig^, nsed to cheqien the wisdom of
the philosopher; jnst as now, cqmights are a snb-
jeet of discussion. But competition reduced prices.
Eveniis asked onhr $150, in the age of Socrates ; and
at the same price, Isocrates taught the whde art
of rhetofic. Frodicus used to sdl tickets Cor separate
lectures.

One per cent, a month, was the usual rate of inter-
est ; yet there was no l^al restriction of usury. The
trade in money, like every thing dse, was left wholly
free, and the rates varied from ten to thirty-six per
cent. In cases of bottomry, this last rate was the
highest. It is plain, that insurance was in such cases
paid for, not less than the use of capital. The high
rates may be ascribed to the insecurity of the times ;
imperfect legislation ; the difficulty of pursuing a claim
in a foreign state ; and the faulty administration of
justice.

The brokers made their gain partly by exchangmg
coin at a premium, but far more by receiving deposits
and lending them again at a higher rate than they
themselves agreed to pay. Some of them enjoyed the
best credit, and received money and notes on deposit.
Pasion, at once a banker and a broker, used to make a
clear profit of $1,500 annually. Bankruptcies among
the brokers, were not unknown.

ECONOMY or ATHENS. 271

Imprisonment for debt was not allowed. The
code of Solon, five hundred years before Christ, ter-
minated at Athens that mortgaging of the body which
has so long deformed the codes of modem States.

It seems doubtful, whether investments in real
estate were profitable ones. In the cases of which
accounts are preserved, the returns seem not to have
exceeded eight or nine per cent. Yet the number of
those who lived in hired houses, was hardly less than
45,000, with a proportionate number of slaves.

PUBLIC EXPENSES.

Before the movement in favor of constitutional hb-
erty, modem revolutions were often the result of finan-
cial difficulties. In a democracy, no distinction can
possibly exist between the interests of the government
and the people; we find accordingly, in the ancient
repubhcs, that fiscal embarrassments were not the
causes of civil commotions. Money was as highly
valued, and the expenses of Athens were proportionally
as great, as in modem governments; but the an-
cients had no public debt. They were often in distress
for fiinds ; but violent remedies were appKed ; and the
oppression did not remain as a permanent and increas-
ing burden on succeeding generations.

After the system of oppressing the alhes was de-
veloped, money became the chief lever in pubUc affairs ;

272 STUDIES 15 HISTOET.

and the decline of the State was at hand. Tet pride
of character^ ambition, and the hope of phmder after
victory, still preserved the spirit of enterprise. The
true pdicy of a popular State should be, to diminish
the public expenses ; in Athens on the contraiy, to the
great detriment of the people, new wants were contin-
ually invented ; new sources of prodigal expenditure
were devised ; and the finances constantly increased in
political importance.

A regular annual estimate of the public revenue
and expenditure seems never to have been made in
Athens, nor to have been customary in antiquity. The
usual expenses were for public buildings, public
festivals, distributions and wages to the people for
lepslative and judicial services, pay of the troops,
poor-rates, public rewards, purchases of arms, ships
and cavalry horses. The extraordinary expenses in
wars cannot be estimated.

The public buildings of Athens were, as all the
world knows, numerous, costly, and splendid. The
most opulent monarchs, the haughtiest princes, have
not been able to equal what the energies of the
Athenian multitude called into existence. The Ro-
mans could do no more than imitate ; and when re-
cently Prussia desired that the principal entrance into
its royal city might be worthy of the pride of a rising
power, its artists could propose nothing better than to
reproduce the Propylsea of Athens. The dockyard of

k

ECONOMY OF ATHENS. 273

Athens alone cost $900,000. The fortifications were
on a gigantic scale. The city and its harbors were
protected by walls sixty feet five inches high, and broad
enough for two wagons to pass conveniently ; of faced
stone, bound by iron bolts. The city and the harbor
were connected by walls, one side of which measured
more than four and a half, the other nearly four, miles.
These were originally very expensive, and constantly
required large expenditures for repairs. The Propylaea
cost five years* labor, and $1,810,800 in money. Add
to these the Odeon, the hippodromes, the aqueducts,
the fountains, the pubUc baths, the ornaments of the
citadel, the temples of Victory, of Neptune, of Minerva,
all adorned with the costliest works of art, the pave-
ments of the streets, the public road to Eleusis, the
numerous altars, which pious superstition prodigally
erected and endowed ; and it will be evident, that a
State of but half a miUion of souls must have practised
self-denial for the sake of pubhc magnificence. Time
and the violence of man have indeed swept away most
of these visible representations of the power, piety, taste,
and luxury of the Attic democracy. Yet the ruins,
which remain, are the admiration of all beholders.
A few weather-beaten statues, a few mangled and
broken bas-rehefs, torn fi'om Athens, now constitute
the chief wealth in sculpture, which the British empire
contains. Let two thousand years of adversity pass
over the decline of London, and what monuments
18

274 STUDIES IN HISTOET.

f

would survive to tell the future inquirers, that it had
been the wealthiest metropoUs of this age, and had
claimed the first rank also for intelligence as well as
for thrift ? Except St. Paul's (which has not the stamp
of eternity upon it like the Parthenon), and the Water-
loo bridge, there is nothing which would bid defiance
to time, and bear testimony, to the latest generation, of
the grandeur of British power. The chief city of the
Uttle democracy of Attica contained within its precincts
far more of those works of genius which elevate the
soul above the ordinary details of life, and quicken the
imagination.

The poUce of Athens seems to have been limited to
a patrol of armed watchmen, whose duty it was to pre-
serve tranquillity in the streets, and to afford protection
to persons and property.

The festivals were a great source of extravagance.
The Athenians, in the early days of the repubhc, sacri-
ficed Uberally, to display their reverence for the gods ;
afterwards prodigally, that the people might riot on the
offerings. In the splendor and in the number of her
festivals, Athens surpassed all other Grecian States.
The poets were invited to produce their magnificent
dramas ; tragedy was evoked vdth its splendid paU and
its recollections of the days of demigods ; the youthful
beauty of the city appeared in the choirs ; music lent
its attractions to heighten the vivid interest of the
stage ; and splendid processions, with their glittering

ECONOMY OF ATHENS. 276

pageantry and solemn trains, assisted in filling up a
holiday with spectacles that might attract and astonish
the rest of Greece. " You never postpone your festi-
vals," says Demosthenes, "and you lavish on them
larger sums than you expend for the naval service;
but your fleets always arrive too late." " Count the
cost of their tragedies," says Plutarch, " you will find
that their (Edipuses, and Antigones, and Medeas, and
Electras, cost more than their wars for supremacy with
the other Greeks, and their struggles for freedom
against the barbarians."

But a still greater expense grew out of the direct
distribution of money to the people. The tribute, levied
from the aUies, was divided among the poorer citizens,
whole talents at a time. Confiscated estates were
their plunder. The poor helped themselves out of the
public chest, and sometimes dined and always went to
the theatres at the cost of the State. *

We pay our legislators, courts, and justices ; the
ancient Athenians went ftirther ; they paid themselves
for attending town meetings. The whole number of
voters may have been twenty thousand, of whom the
majority managed all public afifairs, but the rich and
the busy did not usually make their appearance in the
assembUes, where they were sure of being voted down ;
the needy never failed. In this way, the adminis-
tration of Athenian afiairs fell to some six or eight
thousand very poor men. Masters of the pubUc

276 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

treasury, and of the power of levying taxes, they
voted to themselves what sums they could; till at
last they came to consider* poUtics their trade, and
deemed it but fair that they should be compensated for
participating in legislation. As there was no represen-
tation, and business was conducted as in our town
meetings, the plausible idea of paying for legislation
opened the way to a support for every citizen ; the rich
naturally declined the service as well as its emoluments,
and the poor citizens though very numerous, yet still
limited in comparison with the whole population of
Athens, obtained a monopoly of legislation and its
wages. Seven and a half cents was the Uberal compen-
sation which an Athenian citizen received for acting in
the supreme legislature of the State. We have reason
to suppose that 8,000 usually attended) so that each
Athenian town-meeting cost the State $600. There
were forty regular meetings in the year ; the annual
charge was therefore $24,000.

The Council of Five Hundred were paid fifteen
cents for every day of actual service. We see in
this the views of the Athenians in regard to the
compensation of pubUc officers. They allowed them
but little more than the wages of a laborer. The rela-
tive value of money we have stated to be as three to
one. Our House of Representatives would be as well
paid as the Athenian senate, if their pay were fixed at
forty-five cents a day. This may appear strange ; but

ECONOMY OP ATHENS. 277

it is in confonnity with the Grecian policy. The com-
mander-in-chief of an army received, as we have seen,
but four times the wages of a private. High salaries
are not at all classic.

Athens was the great shire-town, in which all the
courts of Attica were held, and where the causes of the
aUies also were tried. There was more law business
done at Athens, than in all Greece besides. Nearly
one third of the whole number of citizens sat daily, as
judges, except on such days as were appropriated to
reUgion, or to general assemblies. Hence it was, that
Athens swarmed with half-bred lawyers, pettifoggers,
quarrelsome, Utigious sophists. The daily pay of a
judge was seven and a half cents. Every one, on en-
tering, received a ticket and a judge's staiBF. When
the day's work was done, he returned the ticket and
took his emolument. There were ten courts, each
composed of five hundred, and one regularly in session.
Mention is also made of larger courts, composed of ten,
fifteen, and even twenty himdred. Allowing 6,000 as
the average daily number of judges in Athens, they
must have cost the State $135,000 annually.

The public orators, advocates, and lawyers, eD(i-
ployed by the people, were ten in number. Their fee,
like that of the senators, was fifteen cents for each day's
service. Ambassadors were paid with equal frugality ;
their travelling expenses were also publicly defrayed,
though permanent embassies were unknown. Poets

278 STUDIES 15 HISTOKT.

even received a public stipend. Xo person coold draw
doable paj for different service ; as, (or example, no one
conld claim a compensation as present at the town
meeting, and as judge, or orator, or senator, on the
same daj.

The unfortunate, all those incapable of earning a
living, were sustained by the eleemosynary munificence
of the State. In this exercise of public philanthropy,
the Athenians were not imitated by the other Greeks ;
to them exclusively belongs the honor of providing for
the poor, the helpless, and the aged, at the common
charge. The Athenian State also supported and edu-
cated the children of those who fell in battle. Those
who were crippled in war received a pension. Pisis-
tratus established a miUtary hospital. As to the pro-
vision for the poor, none could receive the benefit of it,
except they had less property than forty-five dollars. Yet
this restriction was Uberally interpreted. The assistance
which was afforded, varied from two and a half to five
cents daily.

Public rewards and honors formed. a charge upon
the State. Golden crowns were sometimes awarded,
or pubUc statues erected. The dowry paid to each of
the daughters of Aristides, amounted to more than
$450.

That the Athenians were at considerable expense in
times of peace to colle:t warlike stores, is in itself evi-
dent. The revenue of Athens, in its days of prosperity,

ECONOMY OP ATHENS. 279

was $1,800,000 ; a large incx)me for so small a State,
and which could not have been collected, except by the
consent of the allies to oppression.

On the whole, we cannot but feel a strong partiality
for the Athenian democracy ; for though citizenship in
Athens was an inheritance, and the govenmient was in
the hands of a minority, yet it was the nearest approx-
imation to a perfectly popular State, of which ancient
history furnishes the example. Our own revolution
formed a new era. Our constitutions are an incompa-
rably more perfect development of the principle of civil
equality, and therefore do not contain within them-
selves the seeds of evil, which wrought the ruin of
the ancient States. Luxury may, with the increase of
wealth, diffuse itself among private individuals, but
frugality remains the true poUcy of the State. A
portion of a people, whether it be an aristocracy,
as in Venice or in England, or a separate multitude,
like the rulers of Attica, may, and probably will
become corrupt and unjust ; a nation, which acknow-
ledges no political distinctions, can never be blind
to the principles of equity ; for justice becomes the evi-
dent and permanent interest of all. With us, the great
body of the citizens is sure of remaining imcontam-
inated ; we have far more to apprehend from the head-
long ambition or downright corruption of those who
are the depositaries of power.

THE DECLINE OF THE KOMAN PEOPLR

I.

When Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus, on his way
to Spain, to serve in the army before Numantia, trav-
elled through Italy, he was led to observe the impover-
ishment of the great body of citizens in the rural dis-
tricts. Instead of Kttle forms, studding the country
with their pleasant aspect, and nursing an indepen-
dent race, he beheld nearly all the lands of Italy en-
grossed by large proprietors ; and the plough was
in the hands of the slave. In the early periods of
the State, Cincinnatus at work in his field was the
model of patriotism ; agriculture and war had been the
labor and office of freemen ; but of these the greater
number had now been excluded from employment by
the increase of slavery, and its tendency to confer the
exclusive possession of the soil on the few. The pal-
aces of the wealthy towered in the landscape in sohtary
grandeur ; the plebeians hid themselves in miserable
hovels. Deprived of the dignity of freeholders, they
could not even hope for occupation ; for the opulent

THE DECLINE OF THE BOMAN PEOPLE. 281

landowner preferred rather to make use of his slaves,
whom he could not but maintain, and who constituted
his family. Excepting the small number of the immeas-
urably rich, and a feeble and constantly decreasing class
of independent husbandmen, poverty was extreme. The
king of Syria had reverenced the edicts of Bx)man
envoys, as though they had been the commands of
Heaven ; the rulers of Egypt had exalted the Romans
above the inmiortal Gods ; and from the fertile fields
of Western Africa, Masinissa had sent word that he
was but a Roman overseer. Yet a great majority of
the Roman citizens, now that they had become the
conquerors of the world, were poorer than their fore-
fathers, who had extended their ambition only to the
plains round Rome.

The elder Gracchus, when his mind began to brood
over the disasters that were fast gathering in heavy
clouds round his country, was in the bloom of man-
hood. Sprung from an honorable family, independent,
though not of the most opulent, connected with the
famiUes of the most haughty patricians by the intermar-
riages of his nearest kinsmen, the son of a hero who had
been censor, had twice been consul and had twice
gained the honors of a triumph, — grandson of the elder
Scipio, the victor of Hannibal, — ^brother-in-law of the
younger Scipio the destroyer of Carthage, — ^he might
have entered the career of ambition with every as-
surance of success. Endowed by the kindness of

282 STUDIES IN HISTOET.

Heaven with admirable genius, he had also enjoyed an
education superior to that of any of his contemporaries.
His excellent mother, whom the imanimous testimony
of antiquity declares to have been the first woman of
her times, had assembled round his youth the best in-
structors in the arts and in letters ; what was then a
rare thing in Rome, he had learned to rest his head on
the bosom of the Grecian Muse. Nor were the quali-
ties of his heart inferior to his talents and his nurture.
His earliest appearance in the Bx)man army was in the
final war against Carthage, imder the command of his
brother-in-law; and when Carthage was taken by
storm, he, the impetuous soldier of eighteen, led
the onset, and was the first to ascend the walls of the
burning city. Yet he was gentle in all his dispositions ;
a maidenly modesty, and a peaceful composure distin-
guished his character ; his purity obtained for him in
youth the unusual distinction of a seat among the
augurs. His truth and his moderation were cele-
brated. Numantia, a city within the limits of the
modem kingdom of Castile, had resisted the Roman
arms with an invincible fortitude, which the com-
panions of Palafox could imitate, but not equal. But
no sooner was it announced, that Tiberius Gracchus
had appeared as a messenger before its ramparts, than
the gates opened, the natives of Spain thronged round
his steps, hung on his arms, and clung to his hands.
They bade him take fi-om their pubUc stores whatever

^

THE DECLINE OF THE BOMAN PEOPLE. 283

treasures he desired; he took but a handful of incense,
and offered it to the Gods. They requested him to
estabUsh the basis of a peace, and he framed a treaty
on principles of mutual independence.

But, in the vain attempt to give quiet to Spain,
Tiberius Gracchus did not forget the miseries of Italy.
Who, that has reflected on the history of nations, has
not perceived how slow is the progress of change in the
condition of the laboring class of society ? It is three
centuries since the eloquent and disinterested Calvin
first attempted, in the language and on the soil of
France, to infuse into its peasantry an ameliorating
principle ; and in all that period, how Uttle improve-
ment has taken place in the physical condition and
the intellectual culture of the humbler classes of the
French ! If in the reign of Elizabeth millions of her
English subjects could not write nor read, it was hardly
less true of miUions during the reign of George IV.
History has consisted mainly of the personal achieve-
ments of a few individuals, the victories of armies, the
scandals of courts, the intrigues of the palace ; on the
character, rights, and progress of the great mass of the
people, it has been silent. The Greatest Number has
been forgotten by the annalist, as its happiness has been
neglected by the lawgiver.

Human nature was the same of old ; but Gracchus,
in hoping to improve the condition of the impoverished
majority of his countrymen, refused to indulge in the

Rl

284

STUDIES IN HISTORY.

vain desires of an idle philanthropy. With the en-
larged philosophy of an able statesman, he sought to
understand the whole nature of the evil, and to devise
efficacious measures for its remedy.

He saw the inhabitants of the Bx)inan State divided
into the few wealthy nobles ; the many indigent citi-
zens ; the still more numerous class of slaves. Rea-
soning correctly, he perceived that it was slavery,
which ' crowded the poor freeman out of employment,
and barred the way to his advancement. It was the
aim of Gracchus not so much to mend the condition of
the slaves, as to lift the brood of idlers into dignity ; to
give them land, to make them industrious and useful, and
so to repose on them the liberties of the State. With
the fixedness of an iron will, he resolved to increase the
number of the landed proprietors of Italy, to create a
Roman yeomanry. This was the basis of Ins radical
reform.

The means were at hand. The lands in Italy were
of two classes ; private estates, and public domains.
With private estates, Gracchus had no thought to
interfere. The public domains, even though they had
been long usurped by the patricians, were to be re-
claimed as public property, and to be appropriated to
the use of the people, under restrictions which should
prevent their future appropriation by the few. To ef-
fect this object;, required no new order ; the proper
decree was already engraved among the tablets of

J

THE DECLINE OF THE BOM AN PEOPLE. 285

the Roman laws. It was necessary only to revive the
law of Licinius, which had slumbered for two centuries
unrepealed.

In a repubUc, he that will execute great designs
must act with an organized party. Gracchus took
counsel with the most disinterested men of Rome;
with Appius Claudius, his father-in-law, a patrician of
the purest blood ; with the great lawyer Mutius Scae-
vola, who was of consular dignity ; and with Crassus,
the leader of the priesthood ; all of unimpeachable pa-
triotism, and friends to the reform. But his supporters
at the polls could be none other than the conunon peo-
ple, composed of the impoverished citizens, and the
very few husbandmen who had still saved some scanty
acres from the grasp of the aristocracy.

The people raUied to the support of their cham-
pion ; and Gracchus, being elected their tribime, was
able to bring forward his Agrarian Law. " The wild
beasts in your land," it was so he addressed the multi-
tude, " have their dens ; but the soldiers of Italy have
only water and air. Without houses or property, they,
with their wives and children, are vagabonds. Your
conunanders deceive you, when they bid you fight for
your hearths, and your gods ; you have no hearths, you
have no household gods. It is for the insolence and
luxury of others, that you shed your blood. You are
called the lords of the world, and you do not possess a
square foot of soil."

286 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

The famed Agrarian Law, relating only to the pub-
lic domain, was distinguished by mitigating clauses.
To each of those who had appropriated the land
without a right, it generously left five hundred acres ;
to each of their minor children, two hundred and fifty
more ; and it also promised to make from the pubhc
treasury further remuneration for improvement. To
every needy citizen it probably allotted not more than
ten acres; perhaps less. Thus it was designed to
create in Italy a yeomanry ; instead of slaves, to sub-
stitute free laborers; to plant Uberty firmly in the
land; to perpetuate the Roman Commonwealth, by
identifying its principles with the culture of the soil.
Omnium rerum ex quibus aliquid adquiritur — such were
long the views of inteUigent Romans — nihil est agri-
cidturd melius^ nihil uberius, nihil dulciuSy nihil homine^
NIHIL LiBEBO DiGNius. No puTsuit is morc worthy
of the freeman than agriculture. Gracchus claimed it
for the free.

Philanthropy, when it contemplates a slaveholding
country, may have its first sympathies excited for the
slaves; but it is a narrow benevolence which stops
there. The needy freeman is in a worse condition.
The slave has his task, and also his home and his
bread. He is the member of a wealthy family. The
indigent freeman has neither labor, nor house, nor
food ; and, divided by a broad gulf from the upper
class, he has neither hope nor ambition. He is so

THE DECLINE OP THE BOMAN PEOPLE. 287

abject, that even the slave despises him. For the
interest of the slaveholder is diametrically opposite to
that of the free laborer. The slaveholder is the com-
petitor of the free laborer, and by the lease of slaves,
takes the bread from his mouth. The wealthiest man
in Rome was the competitor of the poorest free car-
penter. The patricians took away the business of the
sandal-maker. The existence of slavery made the
opulent owners of bondmen the rivals of the poor;
greedy after the profits of their labor, and monopolizing
those profits through their slaves. In every community
where slavery is tolerated, the poor freeman will always
be foimd complaining of hard times.

The laws of Gracchus cut the patricians with a
double edge. Their fortunes consisted in land and
slaves; it questioned their titles to the public terri-
tories, and it tended to force emancipation, by making
their slaves a burden. In taking away the soil, it took
away the power that kept their Uve machinery in
motion. A real crisis had come, such as hardly occurs
to a nation in the progress of many centuries. Men
are in the habit of proscribing Julius Cesar as the
destroyer of the Commonwealth. The civil wars, the
revolutions of Cesar, the miserable vicissitudes of the
Roman emperors, the avarice of the nobles and the
rabble, the crimes of the forum and the palace, all have
their germ in the ill success of the reform of Grac-
chus,

288 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

We pass over the proofs of moderation which the
man of the people exhibited, by appearing in the
Senate, where he had hoped to obtain from the justice
of the patricians some reasonable compromise ; and
where he was received very much as O'Connell was
received in the EngUsh Parliament, when he pleaded
for Ireland. The attempt of the aristocracy to
check all procedures in the assembly of the people,
by instigating another tribune to interpose his veto,
was defeated by the prompt decision of the citizens to
dismiss the faithless representative; and the poUcy
of Gracchus seemed established by the unanimous
decision of the commons in favor of his decree.

Such delays had been created by his opponents,
that the year of his tribimeship was nearly passed ; his
re-election was needed in order to carry his decree
into effect. But the evil in Rome was already too
deep to be removed. The election day for tribunes
was in mid-summer; the few husbandmen, the only
shadow of a Roman yeomanry, were busy in the field,
gathering their crops, and failed to come to the sup-
port of their champion. He was left to rest his
defence on the rabble of the city ; and though early
in the morning great crowds of the people gathered
together, and though, as Gracchus appeared in the
forum, a shout of joy rent the skies, and was redoubled
as he ascended the steps of the Capitol, yet when the
patricians, determined at every hazard to defeat the

TH£ DECLINE OF THE BOMAN PEOPLE. 289

assembly, came with the whole weight of their adhe-
rents in a mass, the timid flock, yielding to the senti-
ment of awe rather than of cowardice, fled like sheep
before wolves; and left their defender, the incom-
parable Tiberius, to be beaten to death by the clubs of
senators. Three hundred of his most faithful friends
were left lifeless in the market-place. In the fury of
triumphant passion, the corpse of the tribune was
dragged through the streets, and thrown into the Tiber.

II.

The deluded nobles raised the full chorus of victory
and joy. They believed that the Senate had routed
the people ; but it was the avenging spirit of slavery
that had struck the first deadly wound into the bosom
of Rome. When a funeral pyre was kindled to the
manes of Tiberius Gracchus, the retributive Nemesis
lighted the torch, which, though it burned secretly
for a while, at last kindled the furies of social war,
and involved the civilized world in the conflagra-
tion.

The murder proved the weakness of the Senate;
they could defeat the people only by violence. But
the blood of their victim, like the blood of other mar-
tjrrs, cemented his party. It was impossible to carry
the Agrarian Law into execution ; it was equally im-
possible to effect its repeal.

Gracchus had interceded for the unhappy indigent
19

290 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

freemen, whose independence was crushed by the insti-
tution of slavery. The slaves themselves were equally
sensible of their wrongs ; and in the island of Sicily
they resolved on an insurrection. DifiFering in com-
plexion, in language, in habits, the hope of Uberty
amalganiated the heterogeneous mass. Eunus, their
wise leader, in the spirit of the East, employed the
power of superstition to rally the degraded serfs to his
banner, and, like Mahomet, pretended a revelation from
heaven. Sicily had been divided into a few great
plantations ; and now the voice of a leader, joining the
fianaticism of reUgion to the enthusiasm for freedom,
awakened the slaves, not in Sicily only, but in Italy, to
the use of arms, and the horrors of a servile war.
Cruel overseers were stabbed with pitchforks ; the de-
fenceless were cut to pieces by scythes; tribunals,
hitherto unheard of, were established, where each
family of slaves might arraign its master, and, counting
up his ferocities, adjudge punishment for every re-
membered wrong. Well may the Latin historian grow
impatient as he relates the disgraceful tale. Quia
aequo animoferat in principe gentium populo hella ser-
vorum ? The Romans had fought their allies, yet had
fought with freemen ; let the queen of nations blush,
for she must now contend with victorious slaves.
Thrice, nay, four times, were her armies defeated;
the insurrection spread into Italy; four times were
the camps of praetors stormed and taken ; the soldiers

THE DECLINE OF THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 291

of the republic became the captives of their bondmen.
The army of the slaves increased to 200,000. It is
said, that a miUion of lires were lost ; the statement is
exaggerated ; but Sicily suffered more from the de-
vastations of this, than of the Carthaginian war.
Twice were consuls unsuccessful. At length, after
years of defeat, the benefits of discipline gave success
to the Roman forces. The last garrison of the last
citadel of the slaves disdained to surrender, could no
longer resist, and escaped the ignominy of captivity
by one universal suicide. The conquerors of slaves, a
new thing in Rome, returned to enjoy the honors of an
ovation.

The object of Tiberius Gracchus, continued by his
eloquent and equally unhappy brother, who moreover
was the enlightened and energetic advocate of a system
of internal improvement in Italy, was the meUoration
of the condition of the indigent freemen. The great
servile insurrection was designed to effect the emanci-
pation of slaves ; and both were unsuccessful. But God
is just and his laws are invincible. The social evil next
made its effects apparent on the patricians, and began
with silent but sure influence to corrupt the virtue of
famihes, and even to destroy domestic life. Slavery
tends to diminish the frequency of marriages in the
class of masters. In a state where emancipation is
forbidden, the slave population will perpetually gain
in relative numbers. We will not stop to develope

292 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

the three or four leading causes of this result, pride
and the habits of luxury, the fEunhties of Ucentious
gratification, the circuinscribid limits of productive
industry; some of which causes operate exclusively,
and all of them principally, on the free. The position
is certain and is universal; nowhere was it more
amply exemphfied than in Rome. The rich preferred
the dissoluteness of indulgence to marriage ; and cehbacy
became so general, that the' aristocracy was obhged by
law to favor the institution, which, in a society where
all are free, constitutes the solace of labor and the orna-
ment of life. A Roman censor, in an address to the
people, stigmatized matrimony as a troublesome com-
panionship, and recommended it only as a patriotic
sacrifice of private pleasure to pubhc duty. The de-
population of the upper class was so considerable, that
the waste required to be suppUed by emancipation ;
and repeatedly there have been periods, when the
majority of the Romans had once been bondmen.
It was this extensive celibacy and the consequent want
of succession, that gave a peculiar character to the
Roman laws, relating to adoption.

The free middling class, which even to the time of
the younger Gracchus had retained dignity enough to
seek the amehoration of its condition by the action of
laws, was destroyed; society became hopelessly di-
vided into the very rich and the very poor; and

THE DECLINE OF THE BOMAN PEOPLE. 293

slaves, who performed all the labor, occupied the in-
termediate position between the two classes.

The first step in the progress of degradation con-
stituted the citizens, by their own vote, a class of
paupers. They called on the State to feed them from
the public granaries. We cheerfully sustain in decent
competence the aged, the widow, the cripple, the sick
and the orphan ; Rome supplied the great body of her
freemen. England, who also feeds a large proportion
of her laboring class, intrusts to her paupers no elective
franchise. Rome fed with eleemosynary com the
majority of her citizens, who retained the privilege of
electing the government, and the right of supreme,
ultimate legislation. Thus besides the select wealthy
idlers, here was a new class of idlers, a multitudinous
aristocracy, having no estate but their citizenship,
no inheritance but their right of suffrage. Both
were to derive support from the slaves: the Senate
directly, through the revenues of their plantations ; the
commons indirectly, out of the coffers of the Com-
monwealth. It Tgas a burden greater than the fruits
of slave industry could bear ; the deficiency was sup-
plied by the plunder of foreign countries. The Ro-
mans, as a nation, became a horde of robbers.

This earliest measure was ominous enough ; the sec-
ond was still more alarming. A demagogue appeared,
and gaining office and the conduct of a war, organized
these pauper electors into a regular army. The dema*

294 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

gogue was Marius. Hitherto the Senate had exercised
an exclusive control over the brute force of the Com-
monwealth ; the mob was now armed and enrolled, and
led by an accomplished chieftain. Both parties being
thus possessed of great physical strength, the civil
wars between the nobles and the impoverished free-
men, the select aristocracy, and the multitudinous
aristocracy of Rome, could not but ensue. Marius and
Sylla were the respective leaders ; the streets of Rome,
and the fields of Italy became the scenes of massacre ;
and the oppressed bondmen had the satisfaction of
beholding the jarring parties in the nation which had
enslaved them, shed each other's blood as freely as
water. They had, moreover, their triumph. Sylla se-
lected ten thousand from their number, and to gain
influence for himself at the polls, conferred on them
freedom, and the elective franchise.

Of the two great leaders of the opposite factions, it
has been asserted that Sylla had a distinct purpose,
and that Marius never had. Sylla was the organ of the
aristocracy ; to the party which already possessed all the
wealth, he desired to secure all the poUtical power.
This was a definite object, and in one sense was attain-
able. Having effected a revolution, and having taken
vengeance on the enemies of the Senate, he abdicated
office. He could not have retained perpetual author-
ity ; the forms of the ancient republic were then too
vigorous, and the party on which he rested for support,

THE DECLINE OP THE BOMAN PEOPLE. 295

would not have tolerated the usurpation. He estab-
lished the supremacy of the Senate, and retired into
private life. Marius, as the leader of the people, was
met by insuperable difficulties. The existence of a
slave population rendered it impossible to elevate the
character of his indigent constituents ; nor were they
possessed of sufficient energy to grasp political power
with tenacity. He could therefore only embody them
among his soldiers. His partisans suffered from evils,
which it required centuries to ripen and more than a
thousand years to heal; Marius could have no plan.

Ill,

Thus the want of a great middling class, consequent
on the monopoly of land and the institution of slavery,
had been the ultimate cause of two political revolutions.
The indigence of the commons had led the Gracchi
to appear as the advocates of reform, and had en-
couraged Marius to become their military leader. In
the murder of the former, the Senate had displayed
their success in exciting mobs ; and in resistance to the
latter, they had roused up a defender of their usur-
pations. The aristocracy was satisfied with its tri-
umphs ; the impoverished majority, accustomed to
their abjectness, made only the additional demand
of amusements at the pubhc expense ; and were also
ignobly content. The slaves alone murmured, and in

296 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

SpartacTis, one of their number, they found a man of
genius and courage, capable of becoming their leader.
Roman legislation had done nothing for them; they
determined upon a general insurrection, to be followed
by emigration. The cry went forth from the plains of
Lombardy, reached the fields of Campania, and was
echoed through every valley among the Apennines.
The gladiators burst the prisons of their keepers ; the
field-servant threw down his manure-basket ; Syrian
and Scythian, the thrall from Macedonia and from
Carthage, the wretches from South Gaul, the Spaniard,
the African, awoke to resistance. The barbarian, who
had been purchased to shed his blood in the arena, re-
membered his hut on the Danube ; the Greek, not yet
indifierent to freedom, panted for release. It was an
insurrection, as solemn in its object as it was fearful in
its extent. Rome was on the brink of ruin. Spartacus
pointed to the Alps ; beyond their heights were fields,
where the fugitives might plant their colony; there
they might revive the practice of freedom ; there the
oppressed might foimd a new state on the basis of
benevolence, and in the spirit of justice. A common
interest would unite the bondmen of the most remote
lineage, the most various color, in a firm and happy
repubhc. Already the armies of four Roman generals
had been defeated ; already the immense emigration
was on its way to the Alps.

If a mass of slaves could, at any moment, on break-

TH? DECLINE OP THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 297.

ing their fetters, find themselves capable of establishing
a liberal goverament ; if they could at once, on being
emancipated, or on emancipating themselves, appear
possessed of civic virtue, slavery would be deprived of
more than half its horrors. But the institution, while
it binds the body, corrupts the mind. The outrages
which men commit when they first regain their fi-ee-
dom, furnish the strongest argument against the con-
dition which can render human nature capable of such
crimes. Idleness and treachery and theft, are the vices
of slavery. The followers of Spartacus, when the pin-
nacles of the Alps were almost within their sight,
turned aside to plunder; and the Roman army was
able to gain the advantage, when the fugitive slave was
changed from a defender of personal liberty into a
plunderer.

The struggle took place precisely at a moment
when the Roman State was most endangered by foreign
enemies. But for the difficulties in the way of com-
munication, which rendered a close coalition between
remote armies impossible, it would have sunk beneath
the storm ; and from the shattered planks of its noble
ruins, the slaves alone would have been able to build
themselves a little bark of hope, to escape fi'om the
desolation, and occupy by right of conquest the future
heritage of the Cesars.

298 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

IV.

The suppression of the great insurrection of Spar-
tacus brings us to the age of the triumvirs, and the
approaching career of Julius Cesar. To form a proper
judgment of his designs and their character, we must
endeavor to gain some distinct idea of the condition of
the inhabitants of Italy during his time, as divided into
the three classes of nobles, indigent citizens, and slaves.

The ARISTOCRACY owned the soil and its cultivators.
The vast capacity for accumulation, which the laws
of society secure to capital in a greater degree than to
personal exertion, displays itself nowhere so clearly as
in slaveholding states, where the laboring class is but
a portion of the capital of the opulent. As wealth
consists chiefly in land and slaves, the rates of interest
are, from universally operative causes, always com-
paratively high ; the difficulty of advancing with bor-
rowed capital proportionably great. The small land-
holder finds himself imable to compete with those who
are possessed of whole cohorts of bondmen ; his slaves,
his lands, rapidly pass, in consequence of his debts, into
the hands of the more opulent. The large plantations
are constantly swallowing up the smaller ones; and
land and slaves come to be engrossed by a few. Before
Cesar passed the Rubicon, this condition existed in its
extreme in the Roman State. The rural indigent crept
within the walls of Rome. A free laborer was hardly

THE DECLINE OF THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 299

known. The large proprietors of slaves not only tilled
their immense plantations, but also indulged their
avarice in training their slaves to every species of
labor, and letting them out, as horses from a Uvery
stable, for the performance of every conceivable species
of work. Four or five hundred were not an uncommon
number in one family ; fifteen or twenty thousand some-
times belonged to one master. The immense wealth
of Crassus consisted chiefly in lands and slaves ; on the
number of his slaves we hardly dare hazard a con-
jecture. Of joiners and masons he had over five hun-
dred. Nor was this the whole evil. The nobles,
having impoverished their lands, became usurers, and
had their agents dispersed over all the provinces. The
censor Cato closed his career by recommending usuiy,
as more productive than agriculture ; and such was the
prodigality of the Roman planters, that, to indulge
their fondness for luxury, many of them mortgaged
their estates to the money-lenders. Thus the lands of
Italy, at best in the hands of a few proprietors,
became virtually vested in a still smaller number
of usurers. No man's house, no man's person, was
secure. Nidli eat certa domuSy nullum sine piffnore
corpus. Hence corruption readily found its way into
the Senate ; the votes of that body, not less than the
votes of the poorer citizens, were a merchantable com-
modity. Venalis Curia patrum. The wisdom and the
decrees of the Senate were for sale to the highest bidder.

300 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

The FREE CITIZENS, who still elected tribunes and
consuls, and were still sometimes convened in a sort of
town-meeting, were poor and degraded. But the right
of sufeage insured them ^ maintenance. The petty
offices in the Commonwealth were filled with their
number, and such as retained some capacity for busi-
ness found many a lucrative job, in return for their in-
fluence and their votes. The custom-houses, the
provinces, the internal pohce, oflfered inviting situations
to moderate ambition. The rest clamored for bread
from the pubHc treasury, for free tickets of admission
to the theatre and to gladiatorial shows, where men
were butchered at the cost of the office-seeking aris-
tocracy for the amusement of the majority. But there
existed no free manufacturing estabUshments, no free
farmers, no free laborers, no free mechanics. The
State possessed some of the forms of a democracy;
but the life-giving principle of a democracy, prosperous
free labor, was wanting.

The third class was the class of slaves. It was
three times as numerous as both the others ; though,
as we have already observed, the whole body belonged
almost exclusively to the few very wealthy. Their
numbers excited constant apprehension ; but care was
taken not to distinguish them by a peculiar dress.
Their ranks were recruited in various ways. The
captives in war were sold at auction. Cicero, during the
little campaign in which he was commander, sold men

THE DECLINE OP THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 301

enough to produce at half price about half a miUion
dollars. When it was told in Rome that Cesar had
invaded Britam, the people, in the trae spirit of
robbers, could not but ask one another, what plunder
he could hope to find there. "There is not a scruple
of silver," said they, " in the whole island ; " neque
argenti scrujpvium in ilia insula. " Yes," it was truly
answered, " but he will bring slaves."

The second mode of i^upplying the slave market
was by commerce ; and this supply was so unifonn and
abundant, that the price of an ordinary laborer hardly
varied for centuries. The reason is obvious ; where the
slave merchant gets his cargoes from kidnappers, the
first cost is inconsiderable. The great centres of this
traffic were in the harbors bordering on the Euxine ;
and Scythians were often stolen. Caravans penetrated
the deserts of Africa, and made regular hunts for
slaves. Blacks were highly valued; they were rare,
and therefore both male and female negroes were
favorite articles of luxury among the opulent Romans.
At one period, Delos was most remarkable as the em-
poriimi for slavers. It had its harbors, chains, prisons,
every thing so amply arranged to favor a brisk traffic,
that ten thousand slaves could change hands and be
shipped in a single day; an operation, which would
have required thirty-three or thirty-four ships of the
size of the vessel in which Paul the Apostle was wrecked.
There was hardly a port in the Roman empire, conve-

802 STUDIES IN HISTOBT.

nient for kidnapping foreigners, in which the slave-
trade was not prosecuted. In most heathen countries,
also, men would sell their own children into bondage.
The English continued to do so, even after the intro-
duction of Christianity. In modem times, when men
incur debts, they have mortgaged their own bodies ; the
ancients mortgaged their sons and daughters. Kidnap-
ping, and the sale of one's offspring, were so common, as
to furnish interesting incidents to the writers of novels.

Besides these sources, the offspring of every female
slave, whoever might be its father, was also a slave.

The legal condition of the slaves was extremely
abject. No protection was afforded his limb or his life,
against the avarice or rage of a master. The female
had no defence for her virtue and her honor. Instan-
ces have occurred, where the yoimg female convert to
Christianity was punished by being exposed to pubUc
and legaUzed insults, the most odious to female purity.
A remnant of the abuse forms the plot of Shakspeare's
play of Pericles. No marriages could take place among
slaves ; they had no property ; they could make no
valid compact ; they could hardly give testimony, ex-
cept on the rack. The ties of affection and blood were
disregarded. In the eye of the law a slave was nobody.

The manner in which the laborers on the great
plantations were treated, resembled the modem state-
prison discipline. They were sent out by day to labor
in chains, and at night were locked up in cells.

THE DECLINE OP THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 303

The refractory were confined in subterranean dungeons.
Worn out slaves were sold ofi*, like old cattle from a farm.
The sick were often exposed and left to die. To
enforce industry, the hand, the lash, and the rod, were
the readiest instruments. Or domestic slaves were
sent to various workshops, established on purpose
to tame the obstinate. Sometimes a fork, like the
yoke on a goose, was put round their necks ; they
were placed in the stocks ; they were chained. Every
expedient, that human cruelty could devise, was em-
ployed to insure industry and dociUty. The runaway,
if retaken, was branded, or crucified ; or punished by
the loss of a leg ; or compelled to fight wild beasts ; or
sold for a gladiator. The slave was valued only as
property, and it was a question for ingenious dispu-
tation, whether, in order to Kghten rf vessel in a storm
at sea, a good horse or a worthless slave should be
thrown overboard.

Slaves occupied every station, from the delegate
superintending and enjoying the rich man's villa, to
the meanest office of menial labor, or obsequious
vice; from the foster mother of the rich man's
child, to the lowest condition of degradation, to which
woman can be reduced. The pubhc slaves handled
the oar in the galleys, or labored on the pubhc works.
Some were Uctors ; some were jailers. Executioners
were slaves; slaves were watchmen, watermen, and
scavengers. Slaves regulated the rich palace in the

304 STUDIES IN HISTOET.

city; and slaves perfonned all the drudgery of the
farm. Nor was it unusual to teach slaves the arts.
Virgil made • one of his a poet ; and Horace himself
was the son of a freedman. The Merry Andrew was a
slave. The physician, the surgeon^ were often slaves.
So too the preceptor and the pedagogue ; the reader
and the stage player ; the clerk and the amanuensis ;
the buffoon and the mummer ; the architect and the
smith ; the weaver and the shoemaker ; the undertaker
and the bearer of the bier ; the pantomime and the
singer ; the rope-dancer and the wrestler, all were
bondmen. The ariniger or squire was a slave. Not
an avocation, connected with agriculture, manufactures,
or pubUc amusements, can be named, but it was the
patrimony of slaves. Slaves engaged in conmierce ;
slaves were wholesale merchants ; slaves were retailers ;
slaves shaved notes ; and the managers of banks were
slaves.

Educated slaves exercised their profession for the
emolument of their masters. Their value varied with
their health, beauty, or accomphshments. The com-
mon laborer was worth from seventy-five to one hun-
dred dollars, the usual cost of a negro in the West
Indies, when the slave-trade was in vogue. A good
cook was worth almost any sum. An accompUshed
play actor could not be valued at less than $8,000. A
good fool was cheap at less than $800. Beauty was a
fancy article, and its price varied. Mark Antony gave

THE DECLINE OF THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 305

$8,000 for a pair of beautiful youths ; and much higher
prices have been paid. About as much was given fOr
an illustrious grammarian. A handsome actress would
bring far more ; her annual salary might sometimes be
$13,000. The law valued a physician at $240. Lu-
cullus, having once obtained an immense number of
prisoners of war, sold them for sixty-five cents a head ;
probably the lowest price for which a lot of able-bodied
men was ever offered.

V.

Such was the character of the Italian population,
over which a government was to be instituted, at the
time when Cesar with his army approached the Rubi-
con. In the contest which followed, it was the object
of Pompey to plunder, to devastate, and to punish.
" Should Pompey be successful, not one single tile will
be safe in an Italian roof," says Cicero ; " I know right
well, he desires a government like that of Sylla.'" There
did not exist any armed party in favor of a democratic
repubUc. The spirit of the democracy was gone ; and
its shade only moved with powerless steps through
the forum and the temples, which had once been the
scenes of its glory.

It was in the service of his country that Cesar car-
ried his eagles beyond the Rubicon. The repubUcan
poet, who represents Rome rising before the con-

306 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

queror in a vision, and demanding of him the occasion
ctf his appearance in arms on her borders, describes
him as replying,

" Roma, fave coeptis ! Non te fiirialibus armis

Persequor ; en adsum, — ^ubique tuns."
In seasons of violence, despotism is the child of
anarchy. Men rush to any strong arm for protection.
Such despotism, like that of Cromwell or of Napoleon,
is transitory. Permanent despotism can grow only out
of fixed relations of society. Julius Cesar was a great
statesman, not less than a great soldier. His ambition
was in every thing gratified ; the noise of his triumphs
had filled the shores of England, the marshes of Bel-
gium, and the forests of Germany. Any political dis-
tinction was within his reach. He was childless ; and
therefore his pride hardly seemed to require a subver-
sion of the Commonwealth. And yet, with all this,
he perceived that the continuance of popular Hberty
was impossible in the actual condition of the Roman
State; that a wasting, corrupt, and most oppressive
aristocracy was preparing to assume the dominion of
the world ; that this aristocracy threatened ruin to
the provinces, perpetual cruelty to the slaves, and
hereditary contempt to the people. Democracy had
expired ; and the worst form of aristocracy, far worse
than that of the Venetian nobles of a later day,
could be prevented only by a monarchy. Julius
Cesar resdved on the establishment of a monarchy;

THE DECLINE OF THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 307

for he saw, that a monarchical form of government was
the only one which would endure in Rome. Had he
possessed the virtues of Washington, the democracy of
Jefferson, the legislative genius of Madison, he could
not have changed the course of events. The condition
of the Roman population demanded monarchy. This
was the third great revolution prepared by slavery, and
the consequent decay of the people.

Despotism, in the regular order of Divine Provi-
dence, is the punishment of a nation for the institution
of slavery, and is the consolation or the cure of he-
reditary bondage. The slave wears his chains with
composure, when he sees his owner also in chains.
The laborer felt less himiihation, when he beheld his
master cringing at the feet of a master. The despot
has no interest to invent charges of treason against any
but the very rich ; the peaceful poor man, the humble
slave, has nothing to fear from his rapacity. When, at
a later day in Roman history, a tyrant emperor made
his horse a consul, the slave could glory in the hu-
miUation of his owners ; the people could laugh at the
degradation of their oppressors ; and the appointment,
after all, was probably a popular one. " That the con-
dition of a slave is better under an arbitrary, than
under a free government, is supported by the history
of all ages and nations." It is common to say, that
the democracy introduces despotism and a strong
executive. It is true, that despotism is brought in by
the majority ; it is true, that when great extremes of

808 STUDIES IN HISTOET.

fortune exist, it is the clear and well-understood interest
of the rich to prevent a despotism. But it is false,
that despotism is the child of democracy. Despotism
cannot take place until the spirit of democracy is ex-
tinct. When by the progressive increase of differences
in the condition of men, society is hopelessly changed
into a few immensely rich and the many indigent ;
when the people can, from their humble condition
and the operation of the laws of property, no longer ex-
ercise a regular influence on government ; when they are
bowed under the yoke of a few wealthy families, then
the people cure the evil which grew out of the ine-
quaUty of conditions, by pushing that inequality to the
extreme ; and, in order to put down an insolent and
oppressive aristocracy, they, by a spasmodic effort,
create, or, obeying the natural course of events,
submit to a despotism. Thus the aristocracy brings
on the unjust inequalities for which despotism is the
remedy. The usurpations of a strong government,
with the assent of the people, imply previous usur-
pations in the aristocracy. Witness the despotism of
Denmark, estabUshed by the people for their protection
against the nobility. Witness the poUcy of Louis
XIV. and his predecessor; witness Henry VII. and
Henry VIII., in England, absolute monarchs, tolerated
in their extravagant usurpations, that so the power
of the great landed aristocracy might be restrained,
and the authority of the church subjected. Witness

THE DECLINE OF THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 309

the present constitution of the Russian empire, brought
about, in hke manner, by the act of the nation, to
restrain the ambition of the nobles.

There remained no mode of estabUshing a fixed
government in Rome, but by the supremacy of one
man. In Italy, no opposition was made to Cesar on
the part of the people or of the slaves, but of the aris-
tocracy alone ; and they could offer resistance only
in the remoter subjected districts, with the aid of hire-
ling troops, sustained by the revenues of the provinces
which were still under the control of the Senate. The
people conferred on Cesar all the power which he
could desire ; he was created dictator for a year, that
he might subdue his enemies, and consul for five years,
that he might confirm his authority. The inviolabihty
of his person was secured by his election as tribime
for Ufe.

What would have been the policy of Julius Cesar,
cannot be safely conjectured. To say that he had no
plan is absurd ; every step in his progress was marked
by consistency. The establishment of monarchy was
already an alterative to slavery. Cesar issued an
ordinance, not indeed of immediate abolition, but com-
manding that one third part of the labor of Italy should
be performed by free hands. The command was ren-
dered inoperative by his assassination, the greatest mis-
fortune that could have happened to Rome. For who
were his murderers ? Not the people ; not the insur-

810 STUDIES IN HISTOEY.

gent bondmen; but a portion of the aristocracy, to
whom the greatest happiness of the greatest number
was a matter of supreme indifference.

The great majority of the conspirators have never
found a eulogist. Every ancient writer speaks of them
with reprobation and contempt. Cassius, one of the
chief leaders, was notoriously selfish, violent, and dis-
gracefully covetous, not to say dishonest. He is uni-
versally represented as envying injustice rather than
abhorring it, and his conduct has ever been ascribed to
personal malevolence, and not to patriotism. But
Brutus ! — History never manufactured him into a
hero, till he made himself an assassin. Of a head-
strong, unbridled disposition, he displayed coolness
of judgment in no part of his career. It was his
misfortune to have been the son of an abandoned
woman, and to have been bred in a home, which
adultery and wantonness had defiled. The vices of
early indulgence may be palliated by his youth and the
licentiousness of his time ; but Brutus, while yet young,
was a merciless and exorbitant usurer, at the rate of
four per cent, a month, or forty-eight per cent, a year.
When his debtors grew unable to pay, he obtained for
his agent an appointment to a military post, and ex-
torted his claims by martial law. The town of
Salamis, in the isle of Cyprus, owed him money on
the terms we have mentioned. He caused the mem-
bers of its bankrupt municipal government to be con-

THE DECLINE OF THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 311

fined in their town-hall, in the hope that hunger would
quicken their financial skill ; and some of them were
starved to death. Such was Brutus at that ingenuous
period of life, when benevolence is usually most active.
He hated Pompey, yet after deUberating, he joined
the party of that leader, and remamed true to it, so
long as it seemed to be the strongest ; but no sooner
was the battle of Pharsalia won, than Brutus gave in
his adhesion to Cesar, and to confer a value on his
conversion, he betrayed the confidence of the fugitive
whose cause he had abandoned ! In the plot against
Cesar, Brutus was the dupe of more sagacious men.

Cesar had received the Senate sitting ; this insult
required immediate vengeance. They murdered him,
not fi'om public spirit, but fi'om mortified vanity and
angry discontent. The people, who had been pleased
with the hiuniliation of their oppressors, were indignant
at the assassination, and the assassins themselves had
no ulterior plan.

VI.

Slavery, by the gradual extermination of firee labor
and an industrious self-relying people, had poisoned
the Roman State to the marrow ; and though the con-
spu^tors had no fixed line of policy, yet the condition
of the population of Italy led immediately to mon-
archy. The yoimg Octavian owed his elevation, not to

312

STUDIES IN HISTOBT.

his talents, but to the state of the times. Popular gov-
eminent had become an impossibihty, and monarchy
was the only mode of restraining the rapine of the
Senate.

Slavery prepared the way for Oriental despotism by
encouraging luxury. The genius of the Romans was
inventive ; but it was only to devise new pleasures of
the senses. The retinue of servants was unexampled ;
and the caprices to which men and women were sub-
jected, were innumerable. The Roman writers are so
full of it, that it is unnecessary to draw the picture,
which would indeed represent humanity degraded by
the subserviency of slaves, and by the artificial desires
and vices of their masters. This detestable excess ex-
tended through the upper class. Women ceased to
blush for vices which, in other times, render men infa-
mous. Benefidum seams sui vitiis perdiderunt^ et quia
foeminam exuerunty damnatae sunt morbis virUibus.
At Rome, the gout was a common disease in the cir-
cles of female dissipation and fashion. The rage of
luxury extended also, in some sort, to the people.
For them, tens of thousands of gladiators were sacri-
ficed without concern ; for them, the enslaved Jews
raised the gigantic walls of the Coliseum, the most
splendid monument of the corruptness of human na-
ture ; for them, navies engaged in actual contests ;
and the sailors, as they prepared for battle, received
only an avete, on then* way to death.

THE DECLINE OF THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 313

In like manner, the effect of slavery became visible
on public morals. Among the slaves there was no
such thing as the sanctity of marriage ; dissoluteness
was almost as general as the class. The slave was
ready to assist in the corruption of his master's family.
The virtues of self-denial were unknown. But the
picture of Roman immorality is too gross to be ex-
hibited. Its excess can be estimated from the extrav-
agance of the reaction. When the Christian religion
made its way through the oppressed classes of society,
and gained strength by acquiring the affections of the
miserable whose woes it solaced, the abandoned man-
ners of the cities excited the reproof of fanaticism.
When domestic life had almost ceased to exist, the
universal lewdness could be checked only by the most ex-
aggerated eulogies of absolute chastity. Convents and
nunneries grew up, at the time when more than half the
world were excluded from the rites of marriage, and were
condemned by the laws of the empire to promiscuous
indulgence. Vows of virginity were the testimony
which reUgion bore against the enormities of the age.
Spotless purity could alone fitly rebuke the shameless-
ness of excess. As in raging diseases, the most violent
and unnatural remedies need to be applied for a season,
so the transports of enthusiasm sometimes appear ne-
cessary ,to stay the infection of a moral pestilence.
Thus riot produced asceticism ; and monks, and monk-
ish eloquence, and monastic vows were the protest
against the general depravity of manners.

314 STUDIES IN HISTOET.

The gradual decay of the class of ingenuous freemen
had been a conspicuous result of slavery. The cor-
ruptions of licentiousness spared neither sex ; and the
consequence was so certain, that it was not long,
before the majority of the cohorts, of the priesthood,
of the tribes, of the people, nay of the Senate itself,
came to consist of emancipated slaves. But the sons
of slaves could have no capacity for defending freedom ;
and despotism was at hand when, beside the sove-
reign, there were few who were not bondmen or the
children of bondmen.

Rome was sufficiently degraded, when the makers
of an emperor, stumbling upon Claudius, the wisest
fool of the times, proclaimed him the master of the
Roman empire. Slavery now enjoyed its triumph, for
a slave became prime minister. lo Saturnalia^ shout-
ed the cohorts, as Narcissus attempted to address
them. But the consummation of evil had not arrived.
The husband of Messalina had, naturally enough, taken
up a prejudice against matrimony ; the governors of
the weak emperor, who managed him as absolutely as
Buckingham managed James I., insisted upon his mar-
rying Agrippina. He did so ; and Agrippina, assisted
by freedmen and slaves, disinherited his son, murdered
her husband, and placed Nero on the throne. Slaves
gave Nero the purple.

The accession of Nero is the epoch of the virtual
establishment of the fourth revolution. The forms of

THE DECLINE OP THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 315

ancient Rome still continued, but Nero was the incar-
nation of depravity ; the Very name by which men are
accustomed to express the fury of unrestrained ma-
lignity. Bad as he was, Nero was not worse than
Rome. She had but her due. Nay, when he died,
the rabble and the slaves crowned his statues with gar-
lands, and scattered flowers over his grave. And why
not ? Nero never injured the rabble, never oppressed
the slave. He murdered his mother; his brother;
his wife; and was the tjrrant of the wealthy; the
terror of the successful. He rendered poverty sweet,
for poverty alone was secure ; he rendered slavery
tolerable, for slaves alone, or slavish men, were pro-
moted to power. The reign of Nero was the golden
reign of the populace, and the hoUday of the bondman.
The death of Gracchus was avenged on the descendants
of his murderers.

Despotism now became the government of the Ro-
man empire. Yet there was such a vitaUty even in
the forms of liberty, that they were still in some degree
preserved. Two centuries passed away, before the last
vestiges of republican simpUcity disappeared, and the
Eastern diadem was introduced with the slavish cus-
toms of the East. Up to the reign of Diocletian, a
diadem had never been endured in Europe. Hardly
had this emblem of servility become tolerated, when
language also began to be corrupted ; and, within the
course of another century, the austere purity of the

316 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

Greek and Roman tongues, the languages of Demos-
thenes and of Gracchus, became for the first tune
familiarized to the forms of Oriental adulation. Your
imperial Highness, your Grace, your Excellency, your
Immensity, your Honor, your Majesty, then first
became current in the European world; men grew
ashamed of a plain name ; and one person could not
address another without following the custom of the
Syrians, and calling him Rabbi, Master.

It is a calumny to charge the devastation of Ita-
ly upon the barbarians. The large Roman planta-
tions, tilled by slave labor, were its ruin. Ferum
confitentibuSy latifundia Italiam perdidere. The care-
less system impoverished the soil, and wore out even
the rich fields of Campania. Large districts were
left waste ; others had been turned into pastures ; and
grazing substituted for tillage. The average crops
hardly ever returned a fourfold increase. Nam frumenta
majore quidem parte Italiae, quando cum quarto respon-
derinty vix meminisse possumua. This is the confession
of the eulogist and the teacher of agriculture. Italy
was naturally a very fertile country ; but slave labor
could hardly wring firom it a return one half, or even
one third so great, as free labor gets from the hills and
vales of New England. For centuries it did not pro-
duce com enough to meet the wants of its inhabitants.
Rome was chiefly supplied from Sicily and Africa, and
the largest number of its inhabitants had for centuries
been fed from the public magazines.

THE DECLINE OF THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 317

The Barbarians did not ruin Italy. The Romans
themselves ruined it. Slavery had effected the de-
cline of the Roman people, and had wasted the land,
before a Scythian or a Scandinavian had crossed the
Alps.

When Alaric led the Goths into Italy, even after
the conquest of Rome, he saw that he could not sus-
tain his army in the beautiful but desert territory, unless
he could also conquer Sicily and Africa, whence alone
daily bread could be obtamed. His successor was,
therefore, easily persuaded to abandon the unpro-
ductive region, and invade the happier France.

Attila had no other purpose, than a roving pflgrim-
age after booty ; and as his cupidity was Uttle excited,
and the climate was ungenial, the unlettered Calmuck
was overawed by the Roman priesthood, and diverted
from indigent Italy to the more prosperous North.
Rome still remained an object for plimderers, but none
of the barbarians were tempted to make Italy the seat
of empire, or Rome a metropolis. Slavery had de-
stroyed the democracy, had destroyed the aristocracy,
had destroyed the empire ; and at last it left the traces
of its ruinous power deeply furrowed on the face of
nature herself.

RUSSIA.

The ofigin ci the Rnssiaii natkHi is imrohred in the
obscurity which hangs over most events beloDging to m
remote antiquity. Even the question, to what race of
men the first inhabitants of Emopesn Scythia or Sar-
matia bdonged, is one which the investigations of
modem inqnirers have never been able to answer.
" Of Russia, strictly so called," says the indefatigable
Schlozer, "the ancients, from Herodotus to Charie-
magne, knew as Uttle as of Otaheite." Sarmatia and
Scythia are vague appellations, applied to unknown re-
gions in the North.

It is therefore impossible for the historian to
derive the Russians from any race of the continent of
Asia. Whatever may have taken place in the period,
to which their annals do not ascend, and respecting
which no clear allusions are to be found in foreign his-
torians, to us they appear in the light of aboriginal in-
habitants of the provinces which now constitute the
centre of the empire. From the first they present

RUSSIA. 319

themselves with a language and character of their own ;
they have no community with the Tartars, or with the
Goths ; they were distinct from the Hims, though they
may have served imder the banners of Attila, in the
time of his glory, and may afterwards have received
among themselves the fragments of a nation, whose
season of power had been so short, and yet so de-
structive. The remains or the exiles of other nations
are to be found in the central provinces of Russia ; but
the emigrants seem never to have even impaired the
nationality of the original inhabitants ; but rather to
have become incorporated with them to the entire loss
of their own distinctive character. The Russian, there-
fore, is of all the present European peoples the one
which may lay the best grounded claims to antiquity
of residence in its present abodes. In the darkness of
ancient centuries, extended over vast plains, into which
the genius of Greece and the arms of Rome never pene-
trated, this people were slowly ripening to nationality
during the ages of classic splendor, when Solon gave
laws to the Athenians, and Rome strove after principles
of public justice and liberty. If the Rhoxolani or
Rhossolani were a branch of them, they were not
wholly imknown during the wars of Mithridates;
and in the period of the Roman emperors they some-
times visited the mouths of the Danube, sometimes
scaled the Carpathian moimtains ; and the province of
Moesia was not safe against their precipitate and care-
less valor.

320 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

Till the middle of the ninth century, it is on all
hands agreed that the history of the Russians has no
authenticity. But even the earUest season in which
some facts appear supported by various testimony, is
involved in an uncertainty, which nothing but the most
careful criticism can in any degree dispel. The ori-
ginal manuscript of the chronicles of Nestor is no longer
to be found ; and its copies have undergone so many
alterations and interpolations, that it is difficult to
separate the genuine from the false. Besides, who was
this monk of the eleventh century, to whom Providence
has conceded the singular honor of being almost the
sole depositary of the early history of Ins nation?
The accounts of the monk of Kiew coincide in many
things with those of the Byzantine historians. Did he,
then, draw his information exclusively from original
sources, or was he guided in his inquiries by the
writers of the eastern empire ? Could there have been
any written document in existence among the Russians
on which he may have founded his narrative ? Does
not the time which intervened between the age of
Nestor and that assigned for the foimdation of the
Russian empire, leave room to doubt the security pf
oral tradition ? And could a monk of Kiew be accu-
rately informed of what passed at Novgorod ? It is
evident, that Nestor was not unacquainted with foreign
Kterature. Are we to infer from it, that he was the bet-
ter able to register the course of events ? Or shall we

EUSSIA. 821

suppose that he was led by the influence of foreign
forms to give to Russian history an aspect of greater
certainty than belonged to it? The accounts of Nes-
tor, therefore, while they have an uncertain value for
the whole period through which they extend, are of
less questionable credibihty in all that relates to the
times immediately preceding his own.

Tradition traces the foundation of Kiew to the
middle of the fifth century; the historians of the
eastern empire, not less than Nestor, have preserved
the accounts of an expedition, which is said to have
been made by its princes against Constantinople in the
ninth century. Nor does the commercial repubUc of
Novgorod lay claim to a less ancient existence. Estab-
lished on the banks of the Volchova and not far from
Lake Ilmen, its situation explains its commerce with
the North along the coasts of the Baltic ; and its mer-
chants exchanged at Constantinople their furs and
honey and wax, the produce of their fisheries, and
perhaps also slaves, for the wines and cloths of Grecian
manufacture. The power and the wealth of the repub-
Uc were conspicuous even in these earUest times.
Their successors reduced many of their neighbors
to subjection ; and of the surrounding nations, whom
they inspired with terror, they proudly demanded —
" Who will dare to attack God and the great Nov-
gorod ? "

But a change was impending, which seems to have
21

322 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

proceeded from those domestic grievances and defects
which are the result of age. What an idea of the an-
tiquity of the Russian nation do we thus receive ? Its
first distinct historical celebrity is connected with the
downfall of a repubUcan state ; the new dynasty of
princes elevated its grandeur on the ruins of liberty.
It is said that in some of the oldest temples of Egypt,
the materials of the fiabrics which are now standing
show signs of having been previously used, so that the
oldest buildings of the oldest civilized country are con-
structed of ruins ; in like manner the history of modem
Russia begins with the subversion of an ancient system
by a domestic revolution.

The constitution of Novgorod is not known ; but
prosperity produced divisions, and divisions terminated
in weakness. The Varagians, the pirates of the Baltic,
men who seem rather to have been united by common
habits than by conunon descent, a people numerous
and warlike, attacked the republic from the north. At
the same time the Sclavonian tribes of the south saw
their liberties endangered by the Khozares, who were
advancing from the shores of the Euxine. The citizens
of Novgorod, being thus reduced to a state of danger
and distress, volimtarily yielded up their liberties to
foreign masters. A solemn deputation was sent to the
sea-coast, and Riurick, or Rurik, with his two brothers
and a large train of countrymen, came to rescue the
Russian provinces from foreign invasion, and lay the

RUSSIA. 328

foundations of an empire, which even yet does not seem
to have reached its Umits.

It was in 862, or more probably in 852 (for Rus-
sian chronology has little certainty before the year 879),
that the Russian throne was established. The history
of the kingdom of France dates from 843 ; but the
reign of Hugh Capet dates only from 987. England
was not united under one sovereign till 827. The
glory of the house of Hapsburg reaches no further than
1232 ; there was not even a duchy of Austria till 1156.
The Prussian monarchy is but of yesterday. Accord-
ing to ancient chronicles, and the indirect evidence
of the Greek historians, the Russian throne extends
almost as far into the middle ages, as the establishment
of the French kingdom, or the union of the Heptarchy
of England; while it surpasses in antiquity almost
every other existing government in Europe.

With respect to the earliest Russian dynasty, it
may be well to separate the doubtful from the certain.
That a repubUc should invite three brothers to anni-
hilate its Uberties and reign with unmitigated sovereign-
ty is improbable, though not absolutely without exam-
ple. It cannot be decided, nor is it of the least mo-
ment for the subsequent events in Russian history to
decide, to what nation the family of Rurik originally
belonged. Nestor says they came from the north. In
that case they were kindred with the Normans, perhaps
were Swedes. That with Rurik two brothers should

324 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

have come also and established principalities, should
have died within two years and thus left Rurik lord
of a vast and undivided territory, is not impossible, yet
in itself not natural. That some nobles of his retinue
should have gained of him permission to descend the
Dnieper and attack Constantinople, and should have
appeared before that city with two hundred vessels, is
inconsistent with the rest of the narration. The infer-
ence is therefore forced upon the inquirer, that the Roses
of the Greeks were not the Russians of history. The
points on which reUance may be placed, are simple and
sufl5cient. In the course of the ninth century the
Sclavonian tribes in the heart of Russia were united
under one sovereign ; their dominion gradually ex-
tended to Eaew; the name of Russians, which had
long existed, became a general appellation ; and finally,
the family which traces its origin from Rurik was
the ruUng dynasty of Russia for more than seven hun-
dred years.

Russia forms a connecting link between ancient
and modem history. France, Spain, and England,
were all conquered, and adopted the manners, the dia-
lect, and the learning of their conquerors. In the
heart of Germany, the Teutonic race preserved itself
free from the loss of its language and its nationality.
Have not the nations of Teutonic descent proved, by
the results of their influence on human events and in-
telUgence, that, as a mercy and a benefit to the world.

EussiA. 325

their name and nation were preserved unsubdued and
unmixed ? Have not some of the most valuable princi-
ples in learning, in philosophy, in religion, and, we may
add, in the imaginative arts, been the results of their in-
dependence ? Though it was long before they learned to
unite the elegances of other times with native dignity
and the acquisitions of knowledge, yet have they not at
last shown themselves strong in the depth of sentiment,
in earnest truth, and moral sublimity ? And is it going
too far to hope, that one branch of the great Sclavonic
family is yet to develop an independent character ; that
a nation, which has its unity and identity confirmed and
endeared by a conmiunity of language, of reUgious
fedth, and of historical recollections, — a nation placed on
lands which join the Caspian and the White Sea, the
Baltic, and the most important basin* of the Mediter-
ranean,— ^a nation occupying a soil intersected by the
largest rivers of Europe, and offering great and increas-
ing facihties of navigation by canals, — ^a nation which
reaches from the country of the vine and oUve, to the
latitudes of perpetual frost, and thus unites within
itself all the conditions of national strength, connnercial
independence, and intellectual energy, — ^is it unreason-
able to trust that the future course of such a nation is
to be marked by results favorable to the best interests
of humanity ? That its copious and harmonious lan-
guage is to become the voice of the muses, and the
instrument of science ? That culture is to find a way

326 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

into its healthfdl and fertile vaDeys, and that idigian and
civil liberty are eventually to win new trophies in these
immenser^onsof ancient darkness? The Russian em-
pire, like the United States, if comparatively weak for
purposes of foreign aggression, is invincible within itself.
Its soil is capable of sustaining, without supposing an
unconunon degree of culture, a population of a hundred
and fifty millions ; the most vigorous government may
find enough to do in controlling the members of this
vast body politic ; the most ambitious can have with-
in its limits the means of gratifying an unwearied
activity. It already covers a vaster extent of territoiy
than any which the annals of the world conmiemo-
rate, except it be the transitory dominion of the
Zingis. Where every motive of philanthropy, and of
the true passion for glory, impels to the diflEusion of
sciences and arts, the advancement of the pmrposes
of peace and intelligence, the full display of the great
and good qualities which exist in the ancient race that
has held the north from immemorial ages, it seems not
an unreasonable expectation, that the voice of humanity
and of justice will be heard. It may be within the
purposes of a controlling Providence, that the agency
of the Russian empire shall spread respect for Chris-
tianity through the hearts of idolatrous nations. Its
emissaries have already reared the temples of a purer
religion among the Tartar states of Siberia, and planted
the cross on the mountains of Kamschatka. The

EUS8IA. 327

traveller, as he wanders towards the pole, in latitudes
where com is ripened in a day (a day that extends
over weeks), hears the sounds, and sees the character
of a Christian worship; and monasteries are estab-
Ushed even in the remote isles of the White Sea: the
shores of the Caspian have ceased to acknowledge a
Mahometan master, and the ancient fiable of the
prisoner of Mount Caucasus, the purest and most
subUme invention of ancient mythology, has been but
the faint shadowing forth of more glorious truths,
which are making themselves felt and acknowledged
in the very heart of the mysterious land of classic
superstition.

But if, on the contrary, the form of autocracy
should prove incompatible with the diflFusion of know-
ledge, and if Russia should fail to attain to a govern-
ment insuring the free development of national energy
and the strict accountabiUty of pubUc servants, there
may ensue a new migration of the nations and a
subversion of ancient order, like the terrible devas-
tations of the great destroyer of the middle ages.
What force could the western nations oppose to the
gradual advancement of Russian supremacy? The
capital of Poland is nearly the centre of Europe, and
it is in the hands of the Russians ; Austria has posses-
sions which are said to sigh for the yoke of Sclavonic
masters, rather than yield allegiance to the house of
Hapsburg; Prussia holds the ports through which

328 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

provinces of the mighty state have their intercourse
with the sea ; and probably the prosperity of both
parts would be promoted by a union of the seaports and
the interior imder the stronger government. The
Wallachians, the Moldavians, are of the same reUgious
fidth. It is not many years since Europe shrieked at
the aggressions on Poland ; yet now a large part of the
old Polish provinces rejoice in being re-united to their
ancient brethren ; the heart of the kingdom, the grand
duchy of Warsaw, has not for centuries enjoyed such
tranquiUity, such security, or such general prosperity,
as at present ; the Polish provinces of Prussia lament
their separation from their fellow-citizens of the old
republic. Where, then, is the barrier against Russia
on her frontiers ? On the north, she extends to the
poles, and the conquest of Finland has made her inac-
cessible from the Scandinavian peninsula ; on the east,
her limit is the Pacific, unless, indeed, we take into
account her possessions in North America. On the
south, she is herself most formidable to every one of
her neighbors. Caucasian countries and the keys of
Persia are already hers; no vessels sail on the Cas-
pian but by her permission; she holds more than
half the shores of the Black Sea ; the Turkish power
may yet shine forth in temporary lustre before it
expires; but reUgious and national enthusiasm, and
personal bravery, cannot resist the influence of causes
which are constantly operating, and always increasing

RUSSIA. 329

in strength. Thus, Russia, inaccessible on the south,
east, and north, stands in a menacing attitude towards
the south-east and the west of Europe. Did not Peter
the Great wish to become a state of the German
empire ? Has not a part of the Baltic coast belong-
ing to Prussia been repeatedly grasped at ? Did not
the wise, the temperate, the forbearing Alexander,
accept from his suffering and prostrate ally a. portion
of coveted territory in Galicia? Did he not, even
after the peace of Tilsit, partake in the spoils of his
unhappy associate in arms? The memory of these
things has not perished ; has justice intrenched herself
in firmer sanctuaries ? Has the consciousness of moral
obligation so far gained force, that the appearance
of a tyrant on a powerful throne would no longer
perplex monarchs with a fear of change ?

The statesman that beUeves in human virtue, may
still seek for a guarantee of right in permanent interests,
and in sufficient strength to repel unjust aggressions.
It is painful to suppose that the balance of power in
the north is so far destroyed, that the strongest hope
of security Ues in the wisdom of governments, the per-
sonal virtues of sovereigns, and the cordial union of the
weaker nations.

But it is said that the Russian empire is a huge
mass, which will of itself fall asunder. And why will
it fall asunder? Is there not the tie of kindred in the
great nucleus of the empire ? Is not the whole well

330 STUDIES IN HISTORY

annealed and firmly joined? Is it not cut off and
separated from the rest of Christendom by its peculiar
church discipline ? Is it not one and undivided by its
descent ? Is it not bound together by having the same
military heroes, the same saints, the same recollections,
civil and sacred? Next to France, it is of all the states
of Europe the one which is safest against division.
How much more secure in its unity is Russia than
Austria, which yet is secure except from some general
convulsion. Of the Poles, the Russians, the Hun-
garians, the Bohemians, the Germans, the Dlyrians,
and the ItaUans, which by their motley union con-
stitute the ill-assorted mosaic of the great central
sovereignty, how many at present dislike the Austrian
supremacy ! Will Hungary submit to be a dependency
on a country of far less natural resources ? Will the
beautiful and fertile Bohemia consent to the anni-
hilation of its language, its national laws and con-
stitutions, its time-hallowed Uberties ? Will Russians
prefer the sway of a foreign power to sharing the glory
of their kindred ? Will Poles desire to remain divided
from Poles? Prussia labors under infinitely greater
danger of dismemberment than Russia. The idea,
that Russia will of itself break in pieces, is unfounded
in the history or the character of the component parts
of that empire.

But still it is so vast, so imwieldy ! — ^And is it
more easy to tear a member from a leviathan than a

EUSSIA. 381

fly? Are the limbs of a beast less firmly knit,
because they are huge and massive? It is a dear
lesson of history that large states hold together,
long after wisdom has departed from the councils of
their governors. The Roman empire never fell till it
was shaken from abroad. The Greek empire lasted a
thousand years longer, and would, in all probabihty,
have lasted to this day, had it not received an irresist-
ible shock from a nation which as yet had no home.
Now the danger which is said to hang over Russia is
solely from within itself.

The history of the future cannot be read in the ex-
perience of the past. We may trust that the new
relations, which are rising in the world, will yet lead to
a balance of power, dependent on the moral force of
intelligence. We can but hope that a bright and
peaceful futurity awaits a government, on which de-
pends directly the happiness of sixty miUions of men, a
fifteenth part of the human race ; a government which
holds under its sway a large portion of the whole
hftbitable globe; a government whose soil is sus-
ceptible of infinite improvements, and whose popu-
lation is but just beginning to bear some reasonable
proportion to its natural abundance. The voice of
Sclavonic poetry has already been heard, and the
lessons of the Russian bards are full of the noblest
moral truths. The Russian press is twtive. Works
on domestic history are multiplying. The spirit of the

332 STUDIES IN HISTOEY.

nation is aroused by the recollections which go back for
SO many centuries. The pride of national feeling is
deep and strong, and arts and letters are making their
way into the heart of a country which fix^m its earUest
ages has possessed an aptitude for learning.

Nor should it be left out of view, that while the
general administration is autocratic, the municipal reg-
ulations are free ; that local customs, constitutions, and
religious peculiarities, are preserved ; and that while
there is no legitimate guarantee of civil Uberty, and no
exact limit to check the infringement of the imperial
authority on particular privileges, yet practically the
local institutions are respected ; and in an autocracy,
of which the territory is immense, the hand of the
sovereign is not felt in its rudeness except in his
personal vicinity. It is in a small kingdom that
a tyrant is the most dreaded monster. In a large
state the personal vices of the sovereign extend in
their direct influence hardly beyond his immediate
train.

They who limit their attention in Russian annals to
anecdotes which illustrate the debauchery of the court,
the ignorance of the nobles, or the superstitions of the
vulgar, close their eyes on one of the greatest specta-
cles. The reception of the Russians into the pale of
civihzed Christendom forms an epoch in civilization, so
wide are its influences, so powerful, grand, and benefi-
cent the consequences to which it has led and may

EUssiA. 833

lead. How diflFerent would have been the future of
the world if the Russian state with its present power
had adopted the manners and the religion of the east ?
What safety would there now be to Christian Europe ?
What increased dangers would not hang over its liber-
ties? He that can neglect such results in the de-
lineation of strange and uncouth manners, or in the
scandalous chronicles of the Ucentiousness of an im-
moral court, gives up the contemplation of the great
revolutions in national destinies, to the unworthy office
of analyzing the vices of individual profligates. One
of the noblest branches of knowledge, the history of
nations, loses its dignity and value.

884 STUDIES IN HISTOEY.

THE WARS OP RUSSIA AND TURKEY.

Shortly before the discovery of America, the Rus-
sian nation began to renew its glory. The victories
of Tameriane, by weakening the enemies of the Grand
Prince of Moscow, had prepared the way for his suc-
cessful refusal tO/ send further tribute to the Golden
Horde ; and the great mass of Russian strength, reviv-
ing after a servitude of almost two and a half centuries,
made conquests in every direction, under three suc-
cessive princes of the house of Rurik.

For fifteen years of his reign, Ivan the Great had
paid tribute to the Tartars ; but in the year 1492, his
power was firmly established as an independent prince.
Some Russian merchants had been plundered by the
Turks of Cafia. Ivan expostulated in a letter to Bajazet.
" Whence arise these acts of violence ? Are you aware
of them, or are you not? One word more : Mahomet,
your father, was a great prince ; he designed to send
ambassadors to compliment me ; God opposed the exe-
cution of this project. Why should we not now see
the accomplishment of it ? " And in 1498, the ambas-

THE WARS OF RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 885

sador of the Grand Duke (the title of Czar had not yet
been assumed) was charged "to compUment the Sul-
tan standing, and not on his knees ; to address his
speech only to that sovereign himself, and to yield pre-
cedence to no other ambassador ; and not in any man-
ner to compromise the dignity of his master." The
Russians, for another half century, remained unknown
to the western kingdoms of Europe. Even after their
conquests embraced Kazan and Lapland, they had no
maritime intercourse with the rest of the world.

It is our present purpose briefly to trace the origin,
the progress, and the poKtical results of hostihties be-
tween the Ottoman and the Muscovite empires. The
first rencounter of the Turks and Russians in a field of
battle is assigned by Karamsin to the year 1541, on
occasion of resistance shown to Sahib Gherai on the
banks of the Oka. "There," says the Russian his-
torian, "we for the first time beheld Ottoman tro-
phies in our hands." But Von Hammer explains, that
the trophies were those of a Tartar Klian, and not
of Turks.

In the year 1553, the English sent forth three ships
for the discovery of a Northeastern passage to Cathay
or China. Two of them were wrecked; the third,
commanded by Richard Chancellor, proceeded to " an
unknown part of the world," and reached a place where
there was " no night at all, but a continual light and
brightness of the sun shining clearly upon the huge

836 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

and mighty sea." At length they came to a bay, and
the mouth of the Dwina, and report havmg announced
them to the terrified natives as men of "a strange
nation, of singular gentleness and courtesy," Chancellor
was able to travel into the interior. He found that
the country was called Russia, or Muscovy, and that
Ivan Vassihevitch II. "ruled and governed far and
wide." This was " the discovery of Russia," of
which the fame spread through Spain the belief " of a
discovery of New Indies," and in England gave imme-
diate impulse to mercantile adventure ; so completely
had Russia been withdrawn from the eye of the rest of
Europe, just as she was about to enter on a career of
splendid, permanent, and increasing conquest.

About the time that accident opened to the English
merchants the avenue of Archangel, the Ottoman
empire had attained its height mider the sway of
Solyman the Magnificent. His private misfortunes,
his weakness as a lover, and his cruelty as a father, are
favorite historical topics for those who delight to ob-
serve the workings of liimian passions on the arena of
the world. But Solyman also had courage, enterprise,
a love for letters, a fondness of magnificence in archi-
tecture. He himself commanded in thirteen cam-
paigns, and the terror of his name pervaded Asia and
Europe. His fleets besieged Marseilles, and alarmed
Rome by anchoring in the mouths of the Tiber, while
from the Persian Gulf they seized Bassora on the

THE WARS OF RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 837

Tigris ; on the Mediterranean Sea, pirates plundered in
his name, and the Ararat was hardly a limit to his
emissaries on land. He left to his successor, Selim II.,
an empire extending in the east to Van and districts
which Russian, arms subdued during the summer of
1829 ; in the west, to Gran, within less than a hun-
dred miles of Vienna. The conquest of Algiers and
TripoU had carried its dominion southerly to Nubia
and the deserts of Africa, while in the north, towards
Poland and Russia, the coimtry of the Cossacks was
interposed, and the line of respective sovereignty was
still undetermined. The Nile and the Danube flowed
through the domains of the Grand Sultan ; the khan
of the Crimea was his tributary and ally; the rich
provinces which had witnessed and sustained the lux-
ury of the Seleucidae, were his ; Palestine and a part
of Arabia had submitted to him ; Persia was overawed
by his superior power, just as it now lies at the mercy
of the Czar ; and the Black Sea, and the Sea of Azoph
were exclusively within his jurisdiction. The vast re-
sources of these inmiense, populous, and opulent re-
gions, were imder the control of one will, and might
be called forth with secrecy and despatch ; his regular
troops were admirably disciplined; and his artillery
had been brought to a state of excellence by skil-
ful engineers. Such was the Ottoman power^ at the
period of its first aggression on Russia.

That aggression, the first war between Russia and
22

338 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

the Porte, happened in the year 1569. Just thirteen
years before this invasion, the Russian Czar, Ivan the
Terrible, had succeeded in conquering the kingdom of
Astracan. The Porte on the contrary held Azoph, the
country round the mouth of the Don, and all the
neighboring coasts. The interest of Selim seemed to
require the possession of Astracan, that he might in-
vade Persia from the north, while one of his officers
suggested miiting the waters of the Don and the Volga
by a canal, for the purpose of facilitating the transpor-
tation of munitions of war. The fourth of August was
the evil day for the Porte, when three thousand jani-
zaries and twenty thousand horsemen moved against
Astracan; while five thousand janizaries and three
thousand laborers made their way to Azoph. These
ascended the Don to the place where that river is less
than thirty miles from the Volga, and the excavations
were commenced with incredible zeal. But the Prince
Serebianow appeared with fifteen thousand Russians ;
and the janizaries and the workmen were massacred
or dispersed. Meantime the garrison of Astracan
made a successful sally upon their besiegers. The
Turks were compelled to retreat ; hoping still for the
speedy arrival of succor. But a part of the army of
the Tartars failed to appear, through jealousy of the
too great preponderance of the Porte, which compro-
mised their independence; a part had been attacked
and cut to pieces by the Russians. The Turks, in

THE WARS OP RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 339

despair, trusted themselves in their flight to Tartar
guides, who led them on purpose through destructive
morasses, from fear for the security of their own nation ;
and, finally, a miserable wreck only returned to Azoph,
of an army which had gone forth in the pride of certain
victory. The khan of the Crimea, who had anticipated
his own entire subjection from the success of the Turk-
ish enterprise, filled the desponding army with super-
stitious fears. His emissaries represented, that in the
regions on the Don and the Wolga, the winter extends
over nine months, and that in summer the night is
but three hours long ; while the law of the prophet ap-
points the evening prayers two hours after simset, and
the morning orisons at the break of day. Terrified at
the seeming contradiction between nature and the ordi-
nances of their religion, they embarked at Azoph to re-
turn ; but a storm at sea completed the ruin of the
expedition ; and of all who had been sent out on the
great design, hardly seven thousand came back to Con-
stantinople. Peace was restored between Russia and
the Porte in 1570 by a Russian embassy. Yet it was
remarked and remembered, that Selim, in giving au-
dience to the Muscovite envoy, neglected to inquire after
the health of the Czar, and took no concern for the hos-
pitable entertainment of his ambassador.

340 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

II.

More than a century passed away before the
Russian and Turkish arms again met in battle. The
spirit of conquest had never carried the Mahometans
far to the north; Muscovy offered no places of abode
which they coveted ; and the Ukrame promised Uttle
booty. Russia itself had also been suffering a series of
revolutions, which were finally to insure its prosperity.
The old line of Rurik had come to an end ; the throne
had been usurped by a tyrant, marked by every vice
and possessing no claim as a descendant of the ancient
race of monarchs. At length a fierce opposition left
the usurper no chance of escape, and he took poison.
His son survived him but a few weeks. A pretender
to the crown then entered the metropolis in triumph,
and the false Demetrius held the supreme authority for
a year and a month, tiQ he too fell a victim to his own
intemperate cruelty. Foreign aggressions ensued. The
people proclaimed Shuskoi, a domestic prince, for their
sovereign ; but a succession of disasters placed the un-
happy ruler at the mercy of Poland, while Sweden also
strove to get one of its princes proclaimed in his stead.
Absolute ruin seemed the inevitable doom of Russian
power. But of a sudden a few patriots collected an
army, rescued Moscow, and won a victory over the
Poles. Then the Russians assembled and proceeded to
the solemn election of a sovereign. The choice was

THE WARS OF RUSSIA AND TTJRKET. 341

unanimous ; and the whole nation hailed as its chief
the youthful Michael, the first of the house of Ro-
manow. Thus after an interregnum and fifteen years
of disasters, the Russians were again united, and victory
returned to their standards. Michael struggled suc-
cessfully against the Poles and the Swedes ; he entered
into a treaty of peace with Turkey, on terms of mutual
firiendliness, obtaining the recognition of his authority,
and security against the incursions of the Tartars ; and
finally, he was the first European sovereign on record,
who sent a solemn embassy to China, and formed with
that power a treaty of amity and commerce.

The long and prosperous reign of Michael, firom
1613 to 1645, was succeeded by a reign likewise long,
wise, and prosperous. The authority of Michael had
sprung from the pure source of a patriotic election ; his
son Alexei, who reigned from 1645 to 1676, confirmed
the interior of the state, reformed the laws, won back
from Poland many provinces, which had been extorted
from Russian weakness, and was indefatigable in pro-
moting the general welfare of the state. The father of
Peter the Great was himself a man of justice and of
mildness.

His eldest son, Feodor, followed him as Czar from
1676 to 1689. He was of a weak constitution, yet of
an active mind and unwearied industry. It was soon
after his accession to the sovereign power, in the year
1677, that the second war between Russia and the

342 STUDIES I3i HISTORY.

Porte grew out of the fickleness of the Zaporagian Cos-
sacks. That most singular race of men, either piqued
at the haughtiness of the Turks, or preferring the sove-
reignty of those who were most ready and able to
give them aid, placed themselves under the protecti(»i
of the Russians.

The Cossacks, the mixed descendants of Russians,
Poles, and Tartars, had remained in subjection to
Poland since the fifteenth century, and had formed
an excellent bulwark against the Turks and Tartars.
They rebelled unsuccessfully in 1648, and again in
1651 ; and finally, in 1654, most of them sought pro-
tection of Russia, though a part chose rather to acknow-
ledge the supremacy of the Porte. A conflict ensued
between the Czar and the republic of Poland, ending
with a compromise exceedingly favorable to the Rus-
sians. It remained to secure the country of those,
who, in the first instance, had submitted to the Sul-
tan, but now desired to be incorporated with their
kindred.

The war was of three years duration ; the incidents
were few ; the results of lasting importance. An at-
tack was ordered by the grand vizier upon Tchiriquin,
the chief place of the Zaporagians, on the banks of the
river Tiasmin. But the Russians were on their guard,
and repelled the Turks with their entire discomfiture.
The next year, the new grand vizier, the famous Cara
Mustapha, the same who afterwards besieged, and, but

THE WARS OF RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 343

for Sobieski, would have taken Vienna, renewed the at-
tack with a host which, according to his own threats,
was " innumerable as the stars of the heavens." The
town of Tchiriquin was taken ; but the success was bar-
ren of consequences ; and Cara Mustapha retired to
seek a more conspicuous theatre of action.

A truce of twenty years was concluded at Radzyn,
in the year 1680. The Zaporagian Cossacks remained
under the Russians ; the Porte renounced every claim
to the Ukraine and to Tchiriquin, and guarantied Rus-
sia against any invasion from the khan of the Crimea ;
and finally the Tartars ceded several places to Russia,
as djBpendencies of Kiev. The plain between the
Dnieper and the Dniester was declared to be an inde-
pendent waste, in which no Tartars were to settle.

Such was the honorable peace, concluded by the
brother of Peter the Great. Peodor was a man of lofty
mind, and of great energy of will. It was he who col-
lected the books, in which the records of the rank of
the several nobles were inscribed, and burnt them all
in the presence of an immense assembly. This having
been accomplished, he made proclamation, that " privi-
leges and high offices are not the prerogatives of noble
birth, but are to be obtamed by personal merit alone."

III.

The third war between Russia and the Porte, com-
menced in 1686, and did not cease till 1698 ; nor was

344 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

peace established till 1700. The early death of Feodor
II., in 1682, opened the supreme power of Russia to the
ambition of Sophia. During the first part of her reign,
her sway was undisputed alike by the weakness of her
elder brother, Ivan, or the boyhood of the younger,
Peter. The favorite of the female regent was the
Prince GaUtzin, a statesman of laborious habits and
sagacity. The Austrian emperor was still engaged in
a protracted war with the Turkish power ; and Vienna
had been saved only by the magnanimous heroism of
the Polish king. It was seen, that in Russia an impor-
tant auxiliary might be obtained ; and Polish and Aus-
trian diplomacy were busy in seeking the alliance.

The wary Galitzin saw the advantages which Russia
might win by a rupture with Turkey. At that time
there was not one single harbor on the Black Sea be-
longing to the Muscovite ; and the mouths of the Don
and the port of Azoph began to seem essential to Rus-
sian advancement. But Gahtzin did not engage im-
petuously in the alliance. A treaty with Poland bearing
date May sixth, 1686, and denominated " The Perpetual
Peace," required that republic to resign all claims to
Smolensko and the Ukraine, as the preUminaiy to the
alliance which first united Austria and Russia against
the Porte, under the express condition that no separate
peace should be concluded. At the same time, the
relations of Russia with western Europe were renewed.
Many centuries before, a Russian princess became the

THE WABS OP RUSSIA AND TXJEKET. 345

mother of the French kings ; in 1687 the first embassy
of modem Russia appeared m Paris.

The campaigns of 1687 and 1688 were both unsuc-
cessful. In the former, the failure was attributed to
the treachery of the Cossacks ; in consequence of
which, their Hetman was banished to Siberia, and the
notorious Mazeppa promoted to his place. , In the sec-
ond campaign, the Tartars being defeated, set fire to
the arid prairies, and the flames, as they spread widely
and continued long, involved many of the people and
their cattle in the conflagration, and destroyed all
means of forage.

But a new era was approaching for the internal re-
lations of Russia. Peter had assumed his equal right
to sovereignty, at the age of sixteen ; a bloody revolu-
tion secured the new Czar in power; and the war with
the Turks was almost forgotten for a series of years.
The intrigues of the court and the interior of the
empire, had occupied the attention of the restless Czar.
But at length his ambition coveted an establishment on
the Black Sea, and the capture of Azoph was resolved
upon. In 1695, a fleet, bmlt upon the Voronez, a
navigable branch of the Don, descended the stream,
and entered the Sea of Azoph. A numerous army was
provided to repel the invasions of the Tartars ; another
was employed in conducting the siege. Yet the first
efforts of the young Czar were rash and unsuccessful.

346 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

He lost, during the campaign, many thousands of his
troops, and failed to take the city.

Great success is usually preceded by defeats. Peter
became more cautious ; he obtained from abroad better
engines and artillery, and when in the next spring the
siege was renewed, it was found impossible for the
Turkish garrison to hold out. The city surrendered ;
the fortifications were repaired; the harbor was im-
proved; and the Russian standard was for the first
time planted in triumph on the shores of waters which
connect with the Mediterranean. Previously to the
surrender of the place, the small Russian fleet had en-
gaged the Turkish squadron, and to the astonishment
of Europe, the fleet of a naval power which had been
the terror of the civilized world, especially of the
Mediterranean Sea, was vanquished by the boats of
Russian sailors, who had hardly before seen, much less
unfurled a sail, and whose only maritime commu-
nication with the rest of mankind, had been tlp-ough
the port of Archangel. The victorious army returned
in triumphal procession to Moscow. Peter modestly
joined in the crowd of gazers, took part in applauding
the merit of the conquerors, and himself appeared as a
private volunteer in the train of a superior officer.

On the continuance of the war, further advantages
were gained at Azoph, and Perecop was taken after a
murderous battle with the Tartars. But it was Eugene
who accelerated peace by his success with the Aus-

THE WARS OF RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 347

trian forces at Zenta. Intrusted for the first time with
the chief command, he dared to disobey the emperor's
orders, which prohibited an engagement, and attacked
the nmnerous Turkish army in the presence of the Sul-
tan. Two hours, and a loss of five hundred men, pro-
cured a complete and decisive victory. "The sun
seemed to linger on the horizon," said the youthful
hero, to whose enthusiasm a little glorying may be
pardoned, " to gild with his last rays the triumphant
standards of Austria." The peace of Carlovitz gave to
Peter a truce of two years, and the possession of Azoph
with all its dependencies. The towns on the mouths
of the Dnieper were dismantled, but remained under
Turkish supremacy. This truce, entered into on the
twenty-fifth of January, 1699, was converted into a
definitive peace for thirty years, on the third of July,
1700.

Perhaps the reader is curious to know what honors
were lavished on the hero whose first command was
rendered illustrious by a victory, which gave repose to
Russia, Poland, and Austria P It may be asked, what
artists were engaged to preserve his features in marble ?
What pubhc distinctions marked the deUverer of his
sovereign? What rank, what estates, what triumphal
entries were awarded to the modest and valiant Eu-
gene? When the hero deUvered.the great seal of the
Ottoman empire to the Austrian sovereign, he was
welcomed with no approbation. He was soon after

848

STUDIES IN HISTORY.

arrested for fighting a battle against orders ; was de-
prived of his sword ; and like a malefactor, put under
arrest. It was no new thing for Austria to be ungrate-
ful. In September, 1683, during this same war of
Austria with Turkey, the Polish king had saved Vienna
bom falling into the hands of the Turks. But John
Sobieski was an elective king ; and the cabinet of the
emperor gravely consulted, if such an one had ever had
access to the imperial presence, and in what manner he
ought to be received. The deliverer of Vienna, the
open, brave, chivalric Sobieski, was finally admitted to
an interview, the formalities of which had been settled
with ungrateful and pusillanimous punctiliousness.

On the other hand Peter the Great set at nought
the distinctions of decorum as well as the vain ones
of birth. He made of a baker's boy, who had once
cried bread in the streets of Moscow, but who had
abilities for rendering important services to the state,
a general, a prince, a companion, and a friend ; and
raised to the rank of czarina a servant maid, whose
venal beauty had first attracted his desires, and whose
intellectual endowments and heroism had finally won
his esteem

IV.

Our design extends no further than to trace the
results of the successive wars which Russia waged with

THE WAES OF RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 349

her southern neighbor. We cannot even glance at the
succession of brilliant victories and strange disasters^
which made of the Swedish Charles at one moment the
dictator of the north, and not many years after, the
fugitive dependent on the charities of Turkey. The
Turks manifested admiration for the unbending ener-
gies of this northern hero, and submitted to the influ-
ence of one who had only his own haughty stubborn-
ness to inspire respect. The fourth war of Russia and
the Forte was but an interlude to the grand drama
which the northern nations had been enacting along
the provinces on the Baltic. It is remarkable as the
only one of the whole series in which the crescent had
the superiority ; and it ahnost cost the reformer of the
Russian nation his liberty and the fruits of his la-
borious life.

This war was one of aggression on the part of the
Porte. Peter strove hard to avoid it. It was declared
in Constantinople, on the twentieth of November,
1710 ; and the counter-declaration of Russia was
published at Moscow, in February, 1711. On the
side of the Forte, the intrigues of the Swedish king
had been seconded by the apprehensions of the khan
of the Crimea, who feared that his own territory would
next be coveted by his rapacious neighbor. The Sul-
tan also heard with dismay of a Russian fleet in the
harbor of Taganrog, and of Russian fortifications and
artillery at Azoph.

360 STUDIlTs IN HISTORY.

The Czar was attended during the campaign by the
woman, who, from a servant girl and captive, had risen
to be his wife. The hospodar of Moldavia, the unfor-
tunate Cantemir, proved a faithful ally to the Russians ;
the hospodar of Wallachia had also sought a corre-
spondence with Peter ; but finding a rival traitor in
favor, by a second infidelity he returned to his alle-
giance to the Porte. Cantemir was unable to make
good the promises which he had given in sincerity;
while Brancovan, the hospodar of Wallachia, assisted
in decoying Peter into an inextricable position.

When the Czar found himself, with no more than
about twenty-two thousand men, encompassed by a
hostile army of two hundred and seventy thousand,
near the Pruth, suffering for want of water, without
strength to hazard a battle, or force a retreat, or make
good a defence, his magnanimity did not desert him.
A messenger was despatched to his senate, declaring
that his authority should cease with his liberty, and
that in case of his death, the senate should proceed to
elect the worthiest of their number his successor.

But the counsels of a woman saved him. The
czarina proposed negotiations ; and the grand vizier
deemed a peace the surest way of securing the interests
of his master. Its terms were, the restoration of
Azoph ; the destruction of the fortifications of Ta-
ganrog; the free return of the Swedish monarch
to his realm. The grand vizier had further demanded.

THE WARS OF RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 351

that the person of Cantemir, the rebeUious subject of
the Porte, should be delivered up. " I would rather,"
answered the Czar, " cede all the territory between this
and Kursk ; I should have the hope of some day re-
covering it ; but my broken faith would be irreparable :
I cannot violate my promise ; honor is the only thing
that is peculiarly ours ; and to renounce it is to cease
to be a monarch."

Informed of the negotiation, Charles XII. hastened
to the Ottoman camp, to reproach and to question the
grand vizier. " How dare you," said the Swede, "how
dare you sign the peace without first having my royal
sanction, for whose .interest the war was begun ? "
The grand vizier replied, "that his sublime master
had ordered him to combat for the interests of the
Ottoman empire." " You might have led the Czar and
his army captive to Constantinople," said the king.
" And if I had taken the Czar," replied the vizier, with
insulting apathy, " who would have governed his states
in his absence ? It is not well for all kings to live
abroad."

A delay in the surrender ofAzoph had nearly
renewed the war ; but peace was finally established in
April, 1712, under English and Polish mediation. The
evacuation of Poland by the Russian armies was a new
condition.

Thus were the plans of Peter in the south entirely
finistrated. The acquisitions of his youth were lost ;

S52

STUDIES IN HISTORY.

the Russian fleets disappeared on the Sea of Azoph;
the Euxine remained wholly a Turkish sea; and the
southern commerce of Russia was once more deprived
of all safe and natural issues. The Czar sought indem-
nification in the north ; his affections were indeed more
fixed upon that region^ since it brought him into im-
mediate connexion with civilized Europe; and Sweden
was at last compelled to cede even more than he had
demanded.

V.

It was on occasion of the peace.with Sweden in 1721,
that the Czar was saluted by the Russian senate, the
synod, and the people, with the title of Emperor of all
Russia, which was at once acknowledged by Sweden,
the Netherlands, and Prussia; but which was not
adopted by the German empire till 1747, nor by
Spain tiU 1759.

Four and twenty years had elapsed since the disas-
ters on the Pruth had left to the Turkish power the pride
of success. But the spirit of the Russians burned to
avenge their reverses, and wipe away the recollection
of their last treaty of peace. In the field-marshal
Munich, the empress Anna found for her forces a
leader, whom Frederick the Great has caQed the
Eugene of the North. Thus in 1735, a fifth war
against the Porte was resolved upon, and Austria was

THE WAE8 OF RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 353

induced to take part in it, through the hope of aggran-
dizement on her eastern frontier.

The war on the part of Russia was conducted with
glory. Azoph was besieged and taken; and the
Crimea invaded, but not reduced. Otchakov was
conquered amid streams of blood, in 1737. The
following year was not without its disasters ; but in
1739 the Dniester was passed, the fortress of Choczim
reduced, and all Moldavia fell into the possession of
Russia.

On the part of Austria, there had, on the contrary,
been displayed a singular succession of ignorant and
pusillanimous leaders and statesmen. Modem history
hardly furnishes an example of such want of energy,
union, and ability, as was seen in the whole course of
the management of the war, and still more in the
negotiations for peace. The Austrian plenipotentiary
pleaded the express instructions of his sovereign ; the
emperor charged the envoy with treachery and weak-
ness ; and the Austrian councils exhibited, in a season
of trial and danger, the loathsome spectacle of petty
minds, sacrificing the large interests of nations in the
pursuit of private intrigues, and the gratifications of a
mean-spirited, narrow, and quarrelsome ambition.

It was on that occasion, in 1739, that Austria sur-
rendered Belgrade, and accepted the Danube, the Save,
and the Unna, for boundaries. The history of the
Austrian part of the war is a series of common events,,
23

364

STUDIES IN HISTORY.

rescued by no characteristics, except the magnitude of
the interests at issue, from the dull mediocrity of
ordinary routine. The Austrian plenipotentiary was
subjected in the Turkish camp to every kind of in-
dignity. The grand vizier cut short all negotiation.
" There is but one God," such was his style of diplo-
macy, "and I have but one word; and that is,
Belgrade."

Thus deserted, Russia was glad to withdraw from
the contest. The conditions which she obtained, re-
trieved her honor. The treaty of the Pruth was
annulled ; the imperial* dignity of the Russian monarch
was acknowledged ; Azoph remained this time to the
Russians ; the territory of Russia in the Ukraine was
extended. But it was also stipulated, that Russian
ships were not to sail on the waters of the Euxine.
The positive results of the war were considerable ; but
the moral influences on the tone of feeling in Russia,
were of vastly more moment. Henceforth the Turkish
power was regarded with comparative disdain. The
decisive superiority of Russian arms, and the perfected
organization of the Russian military forces, were due to
the genius of Munich.

And what was his reward ? He had hoped for an
independent principality, which he was to conquer from
the Porte. He subsequently devised the method of su-
perintending the war department of the empire. Disap-
pointed in his ambition, he resigned his public employ-

THE WARS OP RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 355

ments. At the end of a series of revolutions, he was
arraigned before an inquisitorial tribunal. Vexed at
their minute examinations, the veteran exclaimed,
"Write down what answers you please, and I will
sign them." They did so, and he was condemned to
death ; but the empress Elizabeth, who, during her long
reign permitted no capital punishment, would only ban-
ish him to Siberia. There he occupied a house which he
had himself caused to be erected for the bloody Biren.
His residence, or rather his prison, was an isolated build-
ing, situated on a morass, completely exposed to obser-
vation. The income allowed for the maintenance of his
household was twelve shillings a day. He amused
himself with teaching boys geometry; and his name
was still a terror in all the neighboring provinces. The
reverses of fortune, which are 'frequent in Russian
history, surpass the succession of scenes in a masque-
rade. The engineer who planned and executed the
canal of Ladoga was left to draw diagrams for children
in Siberia. He, whose voice had always rung like a
trumpet in the ears of his army, and poured an irre-
sistible flood of troops to the assault of Otchakov and
Choczim, had no wider space for action than a marshy
farm, and was himself transformed to a herdsman, hal-
looing to his cattle, on whose milk he in part depended
for the daily expenses of his household.

At the age of seventy-nine, the venerable old man
was recalled by Peter IH. ; and one who knew him,

356 STUDIES IN HISTOEY.

describes him then to have been the model of aged,
manly beauty. As he returned from his exile, he
knew not if any one of his blood had been left alive ;
but a band of thirty-three of his descendants assembled
to welcome him back to society and civilization.

VI.

The sixth war of Russia and the Porte was begun
by the latter power, and had for its immediate cause
the determination of the Porte to preserve the inde-
pendence of Poland. Catharine was not averse to war.
The aged Munich had retained the fervor of his mind,'
and during the first years of the reign of the empress,
she who was susceptible to every thing which promised
glory or accession of power, loved to hear the octo-
genarian chief detail the plans which Peter had con-
ceived, and the empress Anna well nigh executed.

The Porte strenuously demanded the evacuation of
Poland by the Russian armies. Prance encouraged
the sultan, who was a man of great firmness, to insist
on the demand. Catharine, on the contrary, was
determined by intrigues, divisions, and force of arms,
to control the PoUsh government. Prussia and Aus-
tria acceded to her designs, and became partners in the
aggressions on a state, which, at that time, possessed a
territory not inferior in extent to France.

A peace of thirty years had diminished the miUtary

THE WAES OP RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 357

zeal of the Ottomans. They began the war, and yet
were obliged to act on the defensive. Austria was a
quiet spectator ; Frederick of Prussia even paid sub-
sidies to the new Semiramis.

On the other hand, Catharine was animated by
every motive which ambition and vanity could suggest.
All Europe seemed to rejoice that a woman was to
execute, what so many brave men had failed to carry
into effect. Voltaire flattered Catharine as though she
had been a goddess ; and expressed for her every sen-
timent of adoration which courtly flattery could adopt.
"Barbarians," said he, " who despise the fine arts, and
shut up women, ought to be ext.erminated. It is fit
for a heroine to punish them for their want of defesence
to the sex." When in the first year of the war, Choc-
zim was taken by the Russians, '^Oh! Minerva of
the North," cried Voltaire, " avenge the Greeks ; I go
to meet you on the plains of Marathon." " It is not
enough that the Turks should be humbled," thus he
cheered on the empress ; " their empire in Europe must
be annihilated. They must be banished and, for ever, to
Asia." He sounded " the tocsin of kings," in which
he devoted the Ottoman race to ruin ; advocating a
war of extermination sometimes with fanatical fervor,
sometimes with jests and gallantry. All Europe ap-
plauded without asking if the design was just, or if
Russian despotism was less oppressive than the Turkish.
Religious sympathy was awakened : a hostile feeling to

358 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

a foreign race revived ; and the thought of the resto-
ration of Greece captivated the imagination.

Connexions were formed with the insurgent pacha
of Egypt ; an insurrection was promoted in the Morea ;
the war was carried beyond the Danube into the moun-
tains of Bulgaria, to Chumla, and almost beyond the
Balkan ; while a Russian fleet was despatched from the
ports of the Baltic to the Cyclades.

The burning of the Turkish fleet at Tchesme was
the great event at sea. The Turks had occupied a
strong position in a strait between the island of Chios
and the Asiatic coast. Nevertheless, the Russian ad-
miral deemed it fit to make an attack. The flag ship
of the Russians came into close contact with the largest
vessel of the Turks. After an obstinate engagement,
both took fire, and blew up ; the ofl&cers and a very
few men only having escaped. Upon this the Turks
cut their cables and retreated to the small bay of
Tchesme. -Here they were closely huddled together,
and were immediately blockaded by the Russians.
Two fire ships were finally brought to communicate
flames to the Turkish fleet. "The earth and the
waves," says Catharine, "trembled from the great
number of the enemy's vessels which were blown up.
The sound reached to Smyrna, a distance of nearly
forty nules. The morning after the conflagration, the
water in the harbor of Tchesme was tinged with blood,
so many Turks had perished." And she adds, " as for

THE WARS OP RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 359

the taking of Constantinople, I do not believe it so near ;
yet we must despair of nothing." A few days after,
still dwelling on these scenes of horror, she expresses her
fear, that her deeds in war may seem fabulous to pos-
terity. "Yet a Uttle more of this good fortune and
the history of the Turks will furnish a new subject for
tragedy to future ages." She had told the defender of
toleration that twenty thousand Mussulmen had per-
ished, and now she writes, "Really I think with you,
that it will soon be time for me to go study Greek at
some university."

By land, Romanzoff overran Moldavia and Walla-
chia in 1770, after conquering, on the river Kagul,
150,000 Turks, with an army of but fifteen thousand
Russians. In 1771, Dolgoruki succeeded in subdu-
ing the Crimea which the Russians called Taurida,
and was rewarded with the name of Krimski. " You
will keep the Tauric Chersonesus," said Voltaire ; " but
if you make peace now, what will become of my poor
Greece." " If the war continues," wrote the empress,
" there will be nothing left for us to take but Byzan-
tium, and in truth I begin to think that that is not
impossible."

Charmed with the flattery of the greatest writer of
the age, she believed in his visions of Olympian games
to be established anew, of Attica rising up again in its
ancient glory. A design for a medal, to celebrate the
taking of Constantinople, was got ready in anticipa-

360 STUDIES IN HI8T0ET.

tion ; she would say, half in jest, half in earnest, " We
will have the ancient Greek tragedies enacted by
Grecian players on the theatre of Athens;" and as
for the road from Moscow to Corinth, she had traced
it with her own hand on her maps. " But after all,"
said she as her finances became impaired, ''I must
practise moderation, and say peace is better than the
finest war in the world." The year 1773 passed in
negotiations.

There was not one of the European powers that
was willing to see the downfall of the Porte; but the
English Ministry could not interfere, for it gave all its
energies to the repression of the spirit of Uberty in
America; and was led by its jealousy of France to
seek the most intimate poUtical connexion with Russia.
France was paralysed by the abject vices of her sove-
reign. The king of Prussia clearly discerned how
adverse to his own interest would be the increase of
his neighbor, but he was bound by a treaty of alhance
to which he remained fEdthfal. Austria alone under-
took to prevent Russian aggrandizement at the expense
of Turkey.

On the sixth of July, 1771, her ambassador. Von
Thugut, signed at Constantinople a secret convention,
by which Austria, taking advantage of the necessities
of the Porte, made valuable acquisitions of money,
land, and commercial privileges, and in consideration
of these advantages, promised jointly with the Porte to

THE WAE8 OP RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 861

compel Russia to return all the Turkish provinces she
had conquered, and to secure the independence and
freedom of the repubUc of Poland, which would then
be a wall between Russia and the Porte. All the
while that in his negotiations with the Porte he was
assuming such obligations of hostiUty to Russia, he
was using towards that power the strongest assurances
of friendship, and engaged, with certain conditions, to
use his influence to procure for Russia an advantageous
peace. Meantime, the convention was kept a secret for
several months ; and Austria received a very accept-
able strip of land as well as a large sum of money,
which was welcome to an exhausted treasury.

Hardly were these advantages secured from the
Porte, when Kaunitz, allured by the prospect of large
acquisitions from Poland, came to an understanding
with Russia, and expressed a willingness to assent to
those conditions of peace which Catharine desired.
Only he gave the crafty counsel, that she should first
make much more severe requisitions than she designed
to insist upon, to which Austria might earnestly
object. Then by degrees the terms being made milder,
as if by Austrian influence, both powers were to unite
in pressing them upon the Porte.

The plan for jointly plundering Turkey as well as
Poland, was made just six months after the convention
by which Austria had pledged herself to take part with
the Porte till all its possessions should be recovered.

362

STUDIES IN HISTORY.

The sympathy expressed by the European powers
in behalf of Turkey, served only to confirm it in
its disinclination to peace, and active operations were
earnestly renewed. " You will take Byzantium," wrote
Voltaire to the empress, "and you will cause the
CEdipus of Sophocles to be played at Athens." " If
the Turks continue the war," answered Catharine,
" your wishes to see us upon the Bosphorus will be very
near their fulfilment." In 1773 active operations were
renewed in good earnest. Romanzoff crossed the
Danube, which no Russian army had done before for
eight hundred years. Yet he was obliged to retreat
with great loss. The next year saw him agam beyond
the Danube ; winning victories, and cutting off all com-
munication between the grand vizier at Chumla and
Constantinople. Meantime, the persevering Mustapha
had been gathered to his fathers, and was succeeded by
the imbecile Abdul Hamid. The grand vizier had no
means of defence ; his troops, in their fury, only mas-
sacred each other. The religious warlike enthusiasm
of the Ottomans seemed to be extinct, under rulers
educated in the seraglio to indulgence, not to the labors
of government. On the twenty-first of July, 1774,
sixty-three years almost to a day after the unfortunate
treaty, by which Peter the Great had saved himself
from a ruinous captivity, Romanzoff was able to dictate a
peace, which was hastily signed in the Russian camp
at Kutchuk-Kainardghi.

THE WARS OP RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 363

Its conditions were of the utmost importance in
themselves and in their consequences. 1. The Tartars
in the Crimea and the Kuban were to be independent,
under Russian protection. 2. The Porte retained
Moldavia and Wallachia, but Russia reserved the right
of interfering, by its ambassadors at Constantinople, in
their concerns. 3. Russia retained, of its conquests,
Kinbum and Azoph, and important fortresses in the
Crimea. 4. Commercial freedom was secured to the
Russians in the Euxine, and in all the Turkish waters.

Thus ended the six years' contest. The coast from
the mouth of the Dnieper to the Kuban, was now
either Russian, or at the mercy of Russia. The Dar-
danelles were open to its fleets, and the Euxine free to
its commerce.

The peace of Kainardghi had been dictated by
Catharine, unrestrained by any foreign mediation. At
the close of it, she found herself the arbitress of the
interests of the northern nations ; an object of distrust
to the Swedish Gustavus ; and of apprehension to the
aged Frederic ; while the Austrian emperor courted
her alliance, and the renmant of Poland was swayed
by her influence. By a wise organization of the states
of her boundless empire, she brought its entire re-
sources within her inunediate and easy control; its
moral strength was vastly increased by her arms ; and
now that her generals had been successful in Europe
and Asia Minor, her imperial vanity aspired to the dis-

864 STUDIES IN HISTOEY.

tinction of legislating for the high seas, and protecting
the rights of neutral flags against the aggressions of
maritime tyranny. Is it strange, then, that her mind
should have still fed on the hope of restoring the
Byzantine empire ? Is it wonderful, that she should
have aspired to connect herself with classic associations,
and have enjoyed, in anticipation, the flatteries that
would have waited on the female restorer of Greece,
and the female conqueror of Byzantium ? Up to the
last year of his life, Voltaire continued to use all his
arts of flattery to animate her purpose. " The secret,"
said he, "of sending the Turks back to the coun-
tries from which they came, is reserved for the first
woman of the human race, whose name is Catharine."
And he offers to prostrate himself at her feet, and in
his dying agony to implore victory for her arms.

The success of her first war with the Porte filled
Catharine with an exalted idea of her superior re-
sources; and she continued to aspire to an immor-
taUty of glory for her own name, by establishing a
Greek or Oriental Empire. During her life it was her
intention herself to govern this new dominion, together
with her possessions at the North ; and to bequeath
the latter to her grandson Alexander, the former to
Constantine. The names of the children were tokens
of the high destiny that was preparing for them.
Constantine, from his birth, was treated as the future
emperor of Greece and the East. He was baptized

THE WAE8 OP EUSSIA AND TUEKET. 365

according to the rites of the Oriental Greek Church,
which differ somewhat from the Russian, and he had
Grecian nurses and attendants from the Archipelago.
Accident prevented his being nursed with Grecian
milk, but Grecian sounds were among the first which
he heard. He was called the Star of the East, and
while yet a child, Greeks were admitted to his presence
to do him homage.

But before engaging in a new war with the Turks,
Catharine secured the benefits of the recent pacification.
For the dominion of the Black Sea, the possession of
the Crimea was deemed essential ; and now the last
shade of the successors of Genghis, the former triumph-
ant lord of Russia, was to surrender his sceptre into
the hands of the empress.

In the treaty of Kainardghi, both parties bound
themselves in the most solemn manner, not to interfere,
on any pretext whatever, in the internal concerns of
the Crimea. Yet hardly had the parchments been in-
terchanged, before Russia was ahready busy with its
intrigues. France was interested in behalf of the
Porte; both because it furnished occupation to her
enemies, and still more, for the immense injury which
her conunerce would sustain by its ruin. Into all the
Turkish possessions the French might import and
export every kind of raw or manufactured product,
paying a duty nominally of three, actually of two and
a half per cent. Not. only other nations, the Turks

366 STUDIES m history.

themselves paid a double, and on some tfamgs, a
tlireefcM greater duty. The coasting trade on the
Turkish coast was carried on in French shq», free
fixHn any dpty or tax whatever. The French residing
in Toikey, stood under the sde jurisdiction c( their
own state. The eommeroe with France was constantly
on the increase. At the beginning of the ei^iteenth
century the annual exports from Turkey to France
amounted to about two millions ct livres ; but in the
middle of that century to twenty-two miDions ; and in
the year 1786 to thirty-eight miDions eight hundred
thousand livres.

The diplomatic relations of the European powers
were at this time exceedingly complex. Prussia had an
intimate alliance with Russia, and having frdthfuOy ful-
filled its obligations in the first war between Russia
and Turkey, believed itself now fairly entitled to a
reciprocity of favor, to which it was reluctant to relin-
quish its claim. But Austria, moved by the prospect of
aggrandizement alike in Bavaria and in European
Turkey, unfolded itself from the embrace of France,
and fell into the toils of Russia; France, left thus
alone, endeavored to form a new combination with
Prussia, which must first set itself fr-ee fix)m its
Northern ally. But insuperable diflBculties stood in
the way of this last combination.

The principal aim of France was, to defeat the
schemes of aggrandizement formed by Russia and Aus-

THE WAES OF KU8SIA AND TUEKEY. 367

tria ; the principal aim of Frederic, to dissolve the union
between Prance and Austria, and till there should be a
rupture between those powers, he was too cautious to
trust himself in an aUiance with France. Yet while he
avoided appearing to counteract the schemes of Cath-
arine, he commanded his charge d'affaires at Con-
stantinople, Baron von GaflBron, not to lose a good
opportunity of stirring up the Porte to resist the
ceding of the Crimea to Russia, provided he could
do so without danger of being discovered. Accord-
ingly the envoy indited a most private memoire for
the Turkish minister, and gave it to his drogoman to
translate and deliver. The drogoman, being bribed,
gave the memoire to the Russian ambassador. To
justify himself against complamt and preserve the
appearance of innocence, Frederic dismissed Von
GaflBron from oflfice, and put him in prison. Such
were the contingencies of European diplomacy. Its
morality resembled the Spartan principle about steal-
ing. To play a double part was held a duty ; to be
discovered, a crime.

While negotiations were conducted with careful
reserve between the Prussian and French govern-
ments, the courts of Vienna and Petersburgh were
not less active, though their progress towards an
aUiance met with serious difficulties. To Catharine
the expulsion of the Turks was the great purpose;
to Joseph the Second it was a secondary consideration,

368 STUDIES IN HISTOBT.

to be made subservient to his views on Bavaria and
elsewhere in the West. He acceded to the Russiim
poUcy to obUge the empress, that so the empress
might in turn favor him. He did not beUeve suc-
cess against the Turks so sure or easy as was
imagined ; and acknowledged also, that the Austrian
interest would suflFer fix)m the capture of Constan-
tinople by his northern rival.

While the great continental powers were wavering
in their choice of alliances, Catharine gained possession
of the Crimea. The convention of the tenth of March,
1779, confirmed in the most solemn manner the inde-
pendence of this sovereign state. No foreign power
should, under any circumstances whatever, demand of
it an account of its actions; Russia and the Forte
each promised, by all that they acknowledged as holy,
never, under any pretence, to interfere in its concerns.
The spiritual supremacy of the Grand Seignior was
recognised, but was never to extend to other relations.
Should either party by any unforeseen accident become
entangled in the concerns of the Tartars, it was agreed,
that no step should be taken by it without consulting
the other.

Notwithstanding these obhgations, Catharine took
part in the troubles which soon broke out in the
Crimea. The new khan, Schahin Gheray, was de-
voted to the Russian empress, and trusting in her
protection, imposed unwonted burdens, violated estab-

THE WAES OF EUSSIA AND TURKEY. 369

lished usages, and pretended to be greatly enamored
of [European culture. To diffuse this in all its lustre,
he formed the resolution of having the large French
Encyclopedia translated into the Tartar language. His
authority did not last long enough to execute his pur-
pose; and when Catharine was mistress of the destiny
of the Tartars, in a better Ispirit of toleration, she had
a beautiful edition of the Koran printed for the benefit
of her Mahometan subjects.

The Tartars revolted, and transferred their alle-
giance to Dewlet Gheray. The Russians had not yet
withdrawn their forces; the Turks, therefore, felt
themselves justified in sending troops to Taman, to
relieve those who were suflFering for their religious
faith. This served Russia as a pretext for hostilities,
and Prince Potemkin undertook to conduct the affair
to its completion. Potemkin, the most powerful man
in Russia, was little suited to conciliate either love or
esteem. The Grand Duke, the Count Panin, and other
noblemen of the empire detested him. By persuading
Catharine that his services were indispensable to her
security, rather than by the infiuence of attachment, he
gained entire sway over the empress and the state, and
retained it till his death. He had no distinguished
talents as a conamander; yet the whole army was
under his control; and all the generals of greatest
experience and fame were subject to his caprice. He
understood but imperfectly the foreign relations of his
24

370 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

country or the wants of the interior ; and yet it was he
who dictated to the vanity of the empress the measures
to be adopted within her immense dominions or towards
foreign powers. Without elevated ambition of any
kind, it never occurred to him, that he could do good
to mankind by wisely guiding the affairs of that large
portion that depended on Tiim. To him nothing was
nobler than the honors that dazzle the beholder ; his
whole soul was in the gratification of his vanity. He
prided himself on his skill in regulating cavalry, and
used to boast of his regiment as the finest in the
universe. His love of display made him fond of giving
peculiar brilliancy to the ceremonies of the Greek
Church. Denying himself * nothing, he indulged all
his whims, and wished to have it known that he could
do so. This was to him the great purpose of life. He
disregarded distinctions of birth, of rank, of wealth, and
was always bent on showing that he alone held the
control. Frederic the Second once directed his ambas-
sador to offer Potemkin his influence in gaining for him
the crown of Poland ; Potemkin rephed, that he had
never dreamed of such a matter, and did not respect
the Polish nation enough to be willing to be their king.
He treated the most distinguished foreigners with
contumely, and listened to the proposals of foreign
ambassadors with the contemptuous air of one who but
just condescends to hear the requests of his inferiors
and dependents. Sated with pleasure, he lavished the

THE WARS OF RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 371

public treasure with* boundless prodigality in the grati-
fication of his caprices. Catharine anticipated all his
wants that could be divined, and gave him incredibly
large sums ; nevertheless, he would pervert the funds
intrusted to him for pubhc purposes, and even forge
orders of the empress, to get possession of money,
which he knew to be pecuUarly needed by the state.
Potemldn took bribes from foreign princes to promote
their objects ; and his views were so contracted, that
he could not judge of the true interests of the empire.
He used on all occasions to set in the most ridiculous
light Prederic's strict economy and simple mode of
living ; and once when that monarch opposed a second
division of Poland on account of its injustice, he read
the king's letter three several times and then gave it
back to the Prussian minister with the words, " I never
should have beheved that King Prederic had such ro-
mantic notions."

Though seizing immense treasures, which he care-
lessly squandered at the gaming-table or for any fancy, he
was accustomed never to pay those who furnished him
with the necessaries of life. Merchants held them-
selves ruined, when an order came to supply the wants
of Potemkin. He had no sentiment of mercy in his
nature, and would torment without any object, as if to
show that he could do so with impunity ; and he cared
as little for human life as for money, if the waste of it
pleased his capricious humor.

S72 STTDUS Vf HianoRT.

PoCemkm has been caDed a insi of cotoGsal gieai-
nesB. Bat he was in no wise greaL Hb mind was
low and coarse. He began hk career of socceas like
the other £iTorites, chance haTing made him known to
the empress; and he confinned his power br ira-
podence, and inseimbilitT to nmal fisding and honor.
He cared neither £09* exposing a wide infloence orer
the destinies ctmen, ncx* £09* gaining an inmicfftalitT of
fame ; bat wished to lire in ^[dendor, hare aU near him
at his feet, and {Hore himsdf to be lifted abore every
motive to &ar. Soch was the man who was enqilojed
to annex the Crimea.

''Bk)od and booty" were the watdiwoids, as Po-
temkin poured the Russian army into the heart of the
dominions of the khan. Thoosands of fiunilies were
destroyed, or carried away into bondage in remote
Russian proyinces; till finally, the khan and some
of the royal tribe declared "their convictkm, that
happiness could be found only under the mild gov-
ernment of the empress, and that they therefOTe
submitted themselves and their nation uncondition-
ally and for ever to her authority." On the eighth
of April, 1783, the empress issued her manifesto,
that for sundry reasons therein given, " she had
been induced to receive under her authority the pen-
insula of the Crimea, Kuban, and the island Taman.
Her new subjects were exhorted to fidelity and obe-

THE WAES OF RUSSIA AND TURKBT. 378

dience." The oath of allegiance to the empress was
administered ; every refusal was pmiished with death.

As if nothing had happened, Catharine taking ad-
vantage of the alarm of the Porte at her alliance with
Austria, directly proposed and extorted a treaty of
commerce and amity with Turkey, on conditions most
favorable to Russia. Hardly had this been effected,
when she proceeded still further, and demanded of the
Porte a recognition of her sovereignty over the Crimea ;
threatening war, and Austria joining her in the threat,
if she received a refusal. The Porte yielded, and the
river Kuban became the acknowledged boundary be-
tween the Turkish and Russian empires.

Thus Russia tore from the Porte the granary of
Constantinople, and an outpost which had been im-
portant as a resource in war, capable of furnishing
excellent soldiers. This province became at once of
vast importance to Russia, for it afforded the means
of conducting the most extensive conunerce. But
Catharine and Potemkin both valued it chiefly as the
preparation for further conquest. At the mouth of
the Dnieper the empress caused a new city, Cherson,
to be built. The conquests received their ancient
name, the Tauric Chersonesus, or Taurida, and Potem-
kin, who obtained the appellation of the Taurian, as-
sumed the charge of changing the Tartars into good
Russian subjects. In the execution of lus office he

ine^ no porpoge bercod gfatlfvmg loi own npackr
and the Tsnkr of the empress. CoBsdnmoiu msmos,
and estabfirihed custoo^ w»e despised; ji^ce was
made a matter of pordisse; the weakhj w^oe pfam-
deied; manr fled; manT were drnen into ocha* Rq»-
San profinccs; and fbragners w&e iD&xnnoDauij
imrited from all quarters. In finner times, the Tartar
khan had jonied the Tizrkiyi Mnnj with fifrr thoasaiid
wdl equipped horssnai ; two jears after the hsd had
become an integral part of the Rnsaan onpire, the
cenms of all the male inhabitants is said to have
amoonted to bat serenteen thoosand.

In 17S7, Catharine made to thb part of her
domimoQS a joamer whidi ressnUed a cootimied
triumphal processioa. Polemkin wished to exhibit
pro«>fs of the rapid prosperitr of the Chersonesns, and
the newly acquired provinces. Palaces were th^efcve
erected, though to be occopied but (or a night ; agns
of apparent prosperity and contentm^it were everj
where hung out for show ; towns were buik and
per>ple assembled to j^y the part of inhabitants ; then
the houses were left vacant, and the same people,
having, been carried forward by night, showed them-
selves on the next day, ready to act the same thing
over on another spot. Music and dances enlivened
the hours ; the plains, over which the Tartars had so
recently sped their coursers amidst the l<Hidiness
of rude nature, resounded with strange notes (rf

THE WARS OF RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 376

mirth, and glittered with the splendors of imperial
magnificence. The deputies of a hundred subject
nations stayed the steps of the Semiramis of the North,
who was come to receive their homage. The king
of Poland made his appearance to gaze at the novel
spectacle. Joseph the Second also hurried all the way
from Vienna to behold the show, and the newly built
city, Cherson, became brilliant with splendid festivals,
given in honor of his arrival. Never had the banks
of a river flowing through a wilderness been made the
scene of such revelry. And here in the soUtary city
of the desert, intoxicated with triumph, viewing with
contempt the withered energies of the Porte, and hold-
ing out greedy hands to seize on new diadems, the
German emperor and the Russian czarina perfected
their scheme for the dissolution of the Turkish empire,
and divided in anticipation their future conquests,
inscribing over one of the gates of Cherson, " This is
the way to Byzantium." "The Crimea," we quote
from a confidential letter, which Joseph II., immedi-
ately after his visit to that province, wrote to his own
minister, Kaunitz, " Taurida, has not any thing so very
remarkable. But nevertheless, the advantages which
Russia derives from the acquisition of this province,
are very important It can reduce the Osmanlis to
extremities, after the destruction of their fleet; it can
make Stamboul tremble; it gains the way to Paros
and the Hellespont ; but there I must by all means

376 STTDIU VS HISTOKT.

oome first on the side of Romdia." Tbe Anstnan
emperor read the bod^ of fatmitr wdl; but it was
only a ^anoe of fruitless oovetoosDess, which he was
aDowed to cast on Rmnelia and the Hdleqixxit.

VII.

The Pofte was the aggresscHr in the secemfi war,
wfaidi in August, 1787, the year of Catharine's visit to
CherscHi, was dedared against its overshadowing nei^-
bor, and b^an with nnasaaDj fiivorable auspices.
Asia poured oat its thoosands to be arranged under
-the banners of the grand vizier, and afanost ten thoa-
sand seamoi had been impressed from the islands
of the Archipelago alone. The army of the Torks
amomited to about 450,000 men, of whom about one
half were cavalry. Russia and Austria were, indeed, in
union ; but Poland, now in a state of anarchy and civil
feuds, engaged the immediate attention, and divided the
ambition of Catharine; Sweden assumed a lowering
aspect ; England and Prussia were averse to the
diminution of the Ottoman power; the reforms of
Joseph 11. were exciting discontents throughout his
dominions ; and the Russian empress would gladly
have avoided a rupture, and foregone the gorgeous
vision of a Grecian empire.

The war opened with attempts of the Turks to
recover Einbum, and thus reconquer the Crimea,

THE WARS OP RUSSIA AND TUEKBY. 377

But Suwarrow was there, and their enthusiasm was
fruitless. Once, indeed, during the attack, the Rus-
sians were obUged to fly ; but Suwarrow, who was in
the foremost ranks, galloped after the fugitives, and
throwing himself upon the earth, cried out, " Run, ye
rascals, do but run ; here will I alone be cut in pieces."
Fired by his words, the Russians raUied, the front was
formed anew, and the enemy's troops were dislodged
from their intrenchments with the loss of all but about
five hundred men. This was the only occasion, during
the war, on which the Turks were able to act as aggres-
sors.

The Austrian campaign of 1788 was one of great
loss and disgrace. Joseph II., with a passion for being
esteemed a great warrior, had not one of the qualities
of a general; neither coolness, nor prompt decision,
nor firmness. A mistaken humanity left his army
to waste away by disease, without undertaking any
decisive exploit; and he is supposed to have lost
more men from his tenderness and irresolution, than a
bolder commander would have done in an active cam-
paign.

The emperor was always employed, by day with
the concerns of war, by night with the civil adminis-
tration. He exposed his own person fearlessly, but
spared his troops. His care for their suppUes was
exemplary. His own dress was simple ; his table

37S OTTDIES IX HISTORY.

fingaDy supplied; and, as for his lodging, he scxne-
times occupied an ordinary hut, sometimes slept npon
the ground. He made evenr personal sacrifice; but
the gaDantrv of his officers did not save him from the
results of his own want of judgment. The emperor
expected confidently a battle and a victoiy ; and in-
stead o( it, on the night following the twentieth of Sep-
tember, he was involved in a disorderiy retreat, which
quenched his militarv vanity, destroyed his reputatifm
as a commander, and left in him the seeds of a mortal

Quite difierent were the results in Mcddavia, where
the Austrians, under Coburg, united with the Russians,
and reduced Choczim. Meantime, the attention of
Potemkin had been directed to Otchakov, at the mouth
of the Dnieper. In the naval battles which preceded
the siege, Paul Jones acted as rear-admiral, and ad-
vanced his fame for coolness, intrepidity, and skill.
The possession of the place itself was important to
Russia, for its recent acquisitions would thus be eflFec-
tually secured from attack. It was at last, after a siege
of nearly six months, taken by storm on the seven-
teenth of December, the day of St. Nicholas. It cost
the lives of about 9,500 Turks and of 2,700 Russians.
The Russians obtained the entire mastery of the city in
about one hour and a quarter ; and it has ever since
constituted a portion of the Russian empire.

In the midst of this victorious career, Gustavus III.,

THE WARS OP RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 379

instigated in part by his own ambition, in part by Eng-
land and Prussia, made a sudden, and, to Catharine, a
most unexpected attack on Russia. This invasion
divided the forces of the empress, but was resisted with
admirable dignity ; and after a conflict of more than
two years, she compelled her voluntary aggressor to
recede. All the while the war against Turkey was
continued ^vithout interruption.

The campaign of 1789 was attended by great
results both for Austria and Russia. Gallatz, Acker-
mann, and Bender, were taken by the latter. But the
great event of the campaign, was the battle of Mar-
tinestie, on the Rimnik, in which about 21,000 Rus-
sians and Austrians, after a fierce strife of eleven hours,
gained an entire victory over an army of nearly 100,000
Turks. Prince Coburg had been nearly surrounded.
He wrote a despatch to Suwarrow, and desired him to
effect a junction. Suwarrow tore a scrap from the
letter, scrawled the words, "111 come," and in a
twinkling sent the messenger back, following just in
time to be present at the engagement. The prince
solicited him to allow his troops some rest before fight-
ing. " My men," replied he, " need no repose ; St.
Nicholas before me, myself following the saint, and my
soldiers following me, let us attack the foe." The vic-
tory was one of the greatest ever gamed by an Austrian
general, and was won by a wise disposition of the artil-
lery, and extraordinary coolness and rapidity in con-

880 STimiES IN HISTORY.

centrating forces on the disputed points. Cobnrg
spent the winter in Bucharest. Loudon, on the other
side, succeeded in taking Belgrade ; the siege of Or-
sova was commenced, and the year came to an end
under circumstances which seemed to leave hardly one
strong place, or one eflEectual barrier, between Belgrade
and Constantinople.

The death of Joseph II., in the spring of 1790, left
Russia to continue her career of victory alone. Not
daunted by the desertion of its ally, Potemkin com-
pleted the conquest of Bessarabia. The object of the
Russians, in this campaign, was to defend the Crimea,
and by driving the Turks from the right bank of the
Danube, to gain the ability of prescribing the terms of
peace. To this end Kilianova was- taken, and the
mouth of the Danube occupied, and at last the siege of
Ismail was regularly commenced by the main army of
the Russians under Potemkin. It had lasted more
than seven months, and little impression was made.
Potemkin was with his women, wha amused them-
selves by drawing cards and telling fortunes. " I pre-
dict," said one of them to him, " you will take Ismail
in ten days." — " I know an oracle much nearer than
that," said Potemkin, and issued an order to Suwarrow
to take it within three. On the evening before the
storming, Suwarrow addressed the troops in these
words : " To-morrow early, an hour before day, I shall
get up, shall say my prayers, wash myself, dress myself,

THE WARS ftp RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 381

then I shall crow Uke a cock, and do you storm accord-
ing to my directions." It was done. The Russians lost
15,000 men in the assault of the city and avenged their
loss in the blood of 35,000 Turks. The Russian eagle
was finally planted in triumph on its walls, and Suwar-
row obtained a glory for the massacre of myriads, far
transcending that of the bloody Poliorcetes of antiquity.
At the negotiations for peace the diplomacy of
Russia and Austria were in contrast. A few months
before the death of Joseph II., Prussia formed a strict
alliance with the Forte, and assumed a menacing
attitude towards Austria. Thus, when Leopold II.
came to the throne of Austria, he found a hostile
spirit in Prussia, already ripe for action ; Hungary
was still heaving with discontent ; the Austrian
Netherlan^ were in open revolt; in various parts
of his states, dissatisfaction prevailed ; the season was
one of scarcity ; the finances were exhausted ; his
own election as emperor of Germany not having
been secured, the Grerman empire was without a head ;
France was in a state of revolution, which foreboded a
general crisis ; and England held a peace as the price
of its friendship. Besides, he was himself of a mild
character, and willing to give repose to the many
nations which now acknowledged his sway. At the
congress of Reichenbach, which opened in 1790, Prus-
sia, England, and Holland, as mediating powers, dictated
to Leopold the strict static quo as the condition of the

382 STUDIES IN BISTORT.

peace, which was concluded in the fc^wing year be-
tween Austria and the Porte. What a contrast with
the proud anticipations of Joseph II., but three years
before, in his interviews with Catharine at Cherson I
He had wasted the strength of his empire, sacrificed
his reputation as a miUtaiy man, and prepared his own
grave, without securing to his successor one single ad-
vantage, or bringing to reahty any one of his schemes.
Deserted by Austria, Russia was lefk alone. Swe-
den had been let loose upon her from the north ; Pitt
equipped a fleet to give force to the intervention of
England; Prussia had undertaken the guarantee of
the possessions of Turkey ; France and Spain, so long
as they could, had likewise been active against the
empress ; her treasury was exhausted ; her general-
issimo, Potemkin, enfeebled and dying ; and, what
interested the cabinet of Petersburgh most of all,
the anarchy of Poland had reached its crisis. Yet
in the midst of all these diflSculties, the empress
maintained her purpose of terminating the contest
without foreign mediation. Preliminaries were signed
in August, 1791, and were changed into a definite
peace in January, 1792. Russia kept possession of
the district between the Dnieper and the Dniester,
retained the Crimea and Kuban, and on these condi-
tions, consented to restore all other conquests. So
lightly did Catharine, even while she longed for peace,
hold the threats of England and the guaranties of

THE WARS OP RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 383

Prussia. Thus did she secure to her empire all the
coast from the Kuban to the Dniester, and annex to it
the deserts, where Odessa was soon to bloom.

Count Suwarrow, who with Potemkin conducted
the Russian armies during the war, was one of the
extraordinary men of his age. If he had not conjoined
the talent of inspiring unlimited confidence, his man-
ners would have made him pass for a whimsical
buffoon; and had he not been successful, he would
have been known only for foolhardiness and savage
intrepidity. He was a powerful instrument in the
hands of others ; a soldier panting for bloodshed and
the honors of victory ; at Ismail, Warsaw, and among
the Alps, alike indifferent to the cause which he de-
fended, or the lives which he sacrificed. He possessed
the great qualities of a soldier ; a keen eye, sagacity,
prompt decision, and unsuspected fearlessness. His
motto was, " Forwards and fight." " A general," he
would say, " should be at the head of an army, not at
its tail ; " and on the day of battle, he might be found
in the very hottest of the fray. He was of a restless
and feverish activity ; and in Italy, the French found
him equally fertile in invention and alert in execution.

His wrath was fierce and ungovernable, sometimes
bitterly insolent, sometimes passionately cruel. Yet he
loved freedom of speech in his intercourse with others ;
and it is related of him, that one day when in a
gust of anger he was beating a soldier unmercifully, a

384 STUDI£S IN BISTORT.

young officer, who stood near, cried out, " The fidd-
marshal Suwarrow commands us not to give way to
our anger." " The field-marshal Suwarrow must be
obeyed," replied he, and stopped cudgelling imme-
diately. In his habits he was an ascetic. He slept on
straw, or on hay, even in the period of his princely
fortunes. Whatever furniture he found in a room
which he was to occupy, he was apt to dash in pieces.
Especially he would break all mirrors. Sometimes he
would take out the windows ; " Suwarrow is not afraid
of cold." Sometimes he would unhinge the doors and
throw them away; "Nobody dares come into the
same apartment with Suwarrow." He respected Rus-
sian usages. When Paul wished to change the uniform
of the Russian troops, and introduce the custom of
wearing long hair, Suwarrow would not co-operate in
eflfecting the change. " Cues are not pikes, nor curls
cannon," was his justification. On Sundays and on
hoUdays he would read to his men out of books of de-
votion ; was himself exact in the duty of prayer ; and
if he met a monk or a priest, would kiss his hands
and beg a blessing. He never gave the signal for
battle without making the sign of the cross, and kiss-
ing the image of St. Nicholas. He would worship
relics; drink consecrated water; and eat consecrated
bread, yet with such gestures and grimaces, that his
devotion seemed the display of a merry-andrew. He
knew how to inspire his soldiers with a national fanat-

THE WARS OF RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 385

icism, and made them believe, that if they died in
fighting his battles, they would inunediately return to
life without grief in the places that were dearest to
them. In his speech, Suwarrow was blunt and odd ;
was fond of short, pithy sayings; and occasionally
issued orders in doggrel rhyme. Even his reports
and despatches to the empress were sometimes written
in a sort of jingle. His pubUc honors were as sin-
gular as his character. Beside magnificent presents
of diamonds, of which the ill-dressed warrior was very
proud, Catharine rewarded him, after the Roman
fashion, with the surname of Bimnitski; and Paul
made him a prince, with the name of Italinski, just
as Scipio of old took the name of Africanus, from the
scene of his victories. An imperial ukase was also
issued, proclaiming him the greatest general of all
time. And yet to us Suwarrow seems no better than
an inferior Attila, who only needed to possess undis-
puted power over another race of Huns, to have swept
from the world the fairest monuments of civil liberty.
His memory is perpetuated by the massacres of Ismail
and Praga ; and Carnage may claim him as her favor-
ite son.

VIII.

We have spoken thus far only of wars between the

Turks and Russians. Did they never, during their

long course of existence, range themselves in union

under the same banners ? Has the silver crescent on
25

386 STUDIES IK BISTORT.

its shield' of green, never once been raised in harmony
with the triple crown of the two-headed eagle?
Among the countless variety of human interests, was
there never one in which the ambition of both powers
found a common purpose ? Once, and yet only once,
the armies of the Czar and the caliph met in alliance,
achieved a joint victory and entered a city in company
and in triumph, to restore an exiled sovereign. That
city was Rome ; that sovereign was the Pope. An Eng-
lish squadron appeared in the harbor of Civita V ecchia,
while Russians and Turks assisted at the siege of
Ancona. Success ensued on each side of the Ap-
ennines, till all three nations, as they advanced from
either shore, assembled in the Eternal City ; and English,
Russians, and Turks, heretics, schismatics, and unbe-
lievers, conspired to restore the apostolic see.

The last war of the Porte against Catharine had
cost the sublime, sultan the lives of more than a million
of men, had spread discontent through his provinces,
and, finally, as we have seen, but for the influence of
Prussia on Austria, and but for the more inviting scene
of conquest opened in Poland, would have left his em-
pire at the mercy of the victor. Por some years, the
policy of France and England, and, we may add,
of Russia, towards the sovereign of Constantino-
ple, was singularly wavering. A series of revolu-
tions in the heart of Europe, far beyond the reach or
the cognizance of the Ottoman divan, had recovered

THE WARS OP RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 387

Egypt from French dominion, and had contributed to
the erection of the republic of the seven islands, under
the protection of the Porte, and the guarantee of
Russia. At times, the three great powers, within
the short space of seven or eight years, stood, each
for itself, in a hostile attitude towards the sultan;
and, during the same period, had vied with each other
in courting his friendship, and offering strict guaran-
tees of his entire possessions.

The peace of Presburgh, in 1805, between Austria
and France, gave up to Napoleon the province of Dal-
matia, bordering on the Turkish empire, and made the
condition of that empire more precarious than ever.
Yet, in the following year, the divan, influenced by
the successes of the French in the north of Europe,
abandoned its friendly connexion with Russia, which
had been renewed but the year before, and, despatch-
ing a splendid embassy to Paris, courted an alliance
with France.

The presence of Sebastiani in Constantinople made
the influence of Napoleon paramount ; and brought in
its train the hostility of England. France and Tur-
key having formed a connexion, England and Russia
were driven to an alliance by a common repulsion.
When hostilities between France and Prussia were
renewed, Russia's armies invaded Moldavia without
any previous announcement, and in the same year,

888 STUDIES IN HISTORY.

1806, entered Bucharest in triumph; while the insur-
gent Servians attacked and took Belgrade.

The divan made a formal declaration of war, the
eighth agaiuBt Russiay on the seventh of January,
1807 ; and, encouraged by the rapid victories of
Napoleon, prohibited to all vessels the navigation
through the Dardanelles. The blow was aimed at
Great Britain, and brought a British fleet into the
harbor of Constantinople. The English admiral de-
manded the surrender of the castles of the Dardanelles,
the surrender of the Turkish navy of twenty-one
ships of the line, a declaration of war against Erance,
and the cession of Moldavia and Wallachia to Russia.
Failing at Constantinople, the fleet withdrew, and sub-
sequently made an adventurous and ultimately fruitless
invasion of Egjrpt.

But the course of the war was to be influenced by
other events than the issue of Russian and Turkish
arms. Of the fifteen grand sultans of the eighteenth
century, Selim 111. was the most intelligent. He
knew the weakness of his empire, but desired to
renovate it. Peter I. of Russia had moulded the
rising energies of a nation ; Selim 111. had the harder
task to check decay. Deficient in firmness of char-
acter, he adopted a partial reform. He left to the
janizaries their strength, but formed also an army,
which was to exist by the side of the ancient forces, and
which was disciolined according to the rules of Euro-

\

THE WARS OF RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 389

pean tactics. He was also carried away by a romantic
admiration for Napoleon ; and his intimacy with Sebas-
tiani, whom he permitted to enter the sacred interior
of the seragUo, oflTended the stem pride of the con-
firmed Mahometan bigots. Suddenly, on the twenty-
eighth of May, 1807, an insurrection began. On the
twenty-ninth the unhappy Selim endeavored to pacify
the wild mass of insurgents by concessions, assenting
even to the death of his ministers who were fiavorable
to reform. But he sacrificed his consistency without
securing his Uberty. When the mufti joined in the
attempt to depose the sovereign, Selim, finding resist-
ance useless, bade adieu to his attendants, and repairing
to the apartments which were henceforward to be his
prison, consoled his captivity by singing the story of
his fall.

The nephew of Selim, the -weak and ignorant
Mustapha IV., was raised to the throne. The newly
organized army was disbanded ; and a reaction began
to exterminate every trace of reform. Thus, by an-
archy, and the consequences of the disastrous tumults
in its interior, the Ottoman state lost the opportunity
of attacking Russia, at the time when she was suffering
from the battles of Eylau and Friedland.

The peace of Tilsit contained a clause providing
for an armistice with the Porte. The Russians were
immediately to evacuate Moldavia and Wallachia, into
which the Turks were not to enter till the conclusion

890 STUDIES IN HISTORY,

of the peace. In consequence of this clause, Russia
made a truce at Sloboja with the Porte, on the twenty-
fourth of August, 1807. But peace did not ensue on
the armistice, nor did Russia evacuate the provinces.

The trace continued, as if by common consent, and
without any express stipulations, till the year 1809.
During that period, a new, more fatal, and more
bloody revolution, had sent to the grave every male
descendant of Osman but one.

The pacha of Rutschuk, Mustapha Bairactar, a
personal friend of the deposed monarch, a strenuous ad-
vocate for the party of reform, and enemy to the pre-
vailing system of reaction, determined to set aside the
effeminate Mustapha IV. and raise Selim once more to
power. At Adrianople he was joined by the grand
vizier; and with about thirty-six thousand men they
marched upon the Capital, under the banner of Ma-
homet. The sultan endeavored to win Bau-actar by
appointing him to the chief commaDd of his armies.
But the leader of the invasion would not be diverted
from his purpose. Having first confirmed his miKtary
strength, he assembled the divan, the mufli, the leader
of the janizaries, and the ulemas ; took from the hes-
itating grand vizier the seals of office and put him in
chains ; and then sent the mufti, and the aga of the
janizaries, to demand the restoration of the throne to
Selim. By the advice of the mufti, Mustapha IV.
immediately ordered Selim to be executed. When

THE WARS OF RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 391

Bairactar appeared at the inner gates of the seraglio,
and received the mangled and mutilated corpse of his
benefactor, whom he had expected to restore, grief
stayed his revenge but for a moment. Mustapha IV.
was deposed, and his younger brother Mahmoud II.
was girded with the sword of the Prophet. The grand
vizier and the mufti were thrown into the Bosphorus ;
the chief of the eunuchs, and those who assisted in
murdering Selim, were hanged. The remains of Se-
lim were interred with great pomp.

The office of grand vizier was conferred on the
author of the revolution ; and the way seemed open to
the regeneration of the state. Bairactar enjoined new
levies and warlike preparations. He restored in the
army European tactics and discipline ; he increased the
military subordination ; he allayed the private feuds of
the pachas, and made them all swear that they would
contend only for the defence of the empire. He
caused the youthful sultan to appear in the divan,
and take part in the public business ; and he spread
through the provinces a fear which promised the
restoration of order and the return of security.

Thus there were two parties at Constantinople.
The one favored an approximation to European
culture, and held office under a sultan who was a
creature of their own. But the advocates of unreformed
Mahometanism were still secretly active and powerful.
On the fourteenth of November, the anniversary of

392 STUDIES m bistort.

the day on which the Koran is said to have descended
from heaven, a counter-revolution was begun. Bair-
actar, fearing he should be overpowered, put to death
the late sultan Mustapha IV. and his mother. He was
himself driven to his own palace ; and there, retiring
to a tower, blew himself into the air ; or, as some say,
was suffocated by the flames. A furious battle was
fijught round the sera^io, between the supporters of the
ancient and the new order. Thrice the janizaries were
repelled with a loss of three thousand men. The
capudan pacha, taking sides with the party for reform,
bombarded the town. The palace of the sultan took
fire. The flames spread to the city. At last Mah-
moud II., perhaps deserted by his counsellors, perhaps
concerned for his life, perhaps seeing no alternative,
yielded to the rebellion, and promised the janizaries all
they would ask.

Thus the great question of a change in the political
system of the Porte, was decided for the present by an
insurrection in the streets of Constantinople. The
fierceness of the contest proved that the Mends of
reform were ajready numerous ; and they fell, rather
firom too great confidence in their strength, and the
want of ability on the part of the sultan, than from an
actual inferiority in their resources. The person of the
monarch was sacred, because he stood alone ; the sole
descendant of the race of Osman ; caliph and grand
sultan without a rival;. and at that time without an

THE WARS OF RUSSIA AND TURKEY. 393

heir. The monarch of the Turks, in spite of the insti-
tution of polygamy, was an isolated being. There
was not on earth one man in whose veins flowed the
blood of his family.

A sultan, ruled by a lawless body of miUtary in-
surgents, promised no great display of external strength.
The congress of Erfurt, and the events which preceded
it, changed the relative position of the powers of
Europe. When France formed an alliance with Russia,
the Porte, no longer attracted to Napoleon, was left
to a new combination with England, with which power
a treaty was concluded on the fifth of January, 1809.
The year 1808 had been signalized by a war between
Gustavus IV. of Sweden and Alexander. The peace
of 1809 gave to Russia the province of Finland, and
secured her for ever against invasion from the north.

Alexander, on his return from Erfurt, opened a
congress with the Porte. The Turks knew that they
were abandoned by France, when the Russian embassy
demanded the cession of all the land beyond the
Danube ; but, trusting to the alliance with the Eng-
lish, they ventured to renew the war for three cam-
paigns. The political relations of the great powers
decided more than battles. The Danube and its
fortresses oflfered an obstacle to the Russian arms, far
less formidable than the mountains of the Haemus. In
1811, the Russians retreated beyond the Danube ; the
Turks pursued, only to be entirely defeated; and

894 STUDIES IN HISTOEY.

their camp at Rutschuk was taken by storm. This led
to a peace, for France and Russia having again become
divided, the Porte was swayed by the counsels of Eng-
land ; and in spite of the treaty, by which France and
Austria had mutually guarantied the integrity of the
dominions of Turkey, the Pruth and the Danube be-
came the boundaries of Russia, which thus gained
Bessarabia, and the third part of Moldavia, together
with the control of the natural channel of Hungarian
commerce.

IX.

The ninti war between Russia and the Porte,
declared by Russia in April, 1828, was far less
protracted than those of the last century. Mag-
nificent hopes of change and appalling victories had
prepared its way. It did, indeed, seem at first,
as if the civilized world were arming its moral force,
to rescue firom an uncertain slavery Christian states
which had so long been the victims of despotism.
The insurrection of the Greeks gave a pious aspect
to the foreign influence which was invoked against
the ruthless revenge, attending Ottoman successes.
Philanthropists in both hemispheres ahnost persuad-
ed themselves that the Turkish sovereignty stood
arraigned before the grand inquest of nations; the
sentence of exclusion from the benefit of human
sympathies was pronounced; and the legions of the

i

THE WAES OF EUSSIA AND TUEKEY. 395

north were summoned as the ministers of retributive
justice.

But as the contest advanced, a consideration of im-
portant interests, such as had led, in the former centu-
ries, to repeated colUsions, began to resume and to
exercise an overwhehning influence. The eyes of men
had been dazzled, and their hearts confounded, by the
protracted wars and intricate negotiations which had
grown out of the French revolution. That momentous
event had seemed to interrupt the continuity of his-
tory ; and appeared, like a dark and unexplored gulf,
separating the past and the future. But at last the
nations came to be at rest ; and even the tremulous
motions, which had followed the fierce agitation, began
to be tranquillized. Old sympathies and objects of
ambition revived ; and purposes, which Russia had for
more than a century been desirous of executing, were
hurried to maturity by fortunate circumstances, and a
dexterous use of unforeseen opportunities.

Not the failure of an entire compliance with some
points in the treaty of Bucharest, not the frustrated
negotiations of Ackermann, not a returning sympathy
with the subjugated and dismembered kingdom of
Servia, not an enthusiasm for enfranchising Greece,
precipitated the struggle. The mam terms of the
treaty of Bucharest had been fulfilled ; the Servians,
however reluctantly, had been abandoned to them-
selves; and insurgent Greece could for a long time

396 STUDIES IK HISTOET.

find no hearing in the cabinets oi legitimate sove-
reignty.

But for more than a centoij, it had be«i the
ddiberate aim of Russia, to conunand the Enxine,
to have an absdntety free commnnication with the
Mediterranean, and to wrest from the Torkish sceptre
its provinces beyond the Danube.

Alexander, in his day, steadily porsned it, when-
ever his relations with France permitted ; and during
his war with Turkey,- repeated^ refused to make
peace, except it were purchased with the cession of
the Principalities. It was under the auspices of
Nicholas that the Ottoman territory vras actually
invaded, after nine years of preparation.

The events attending the short struggle, proved
alike the desire and the inability of some of the leading
European powers to interfere. England was never so
much at a loss for instruments to check Russian
aggrandizement. Prussia, which had used its influ-
ence against Joseph II. with so much success, was
now in close alliance with the Russian emperor ; and
Sweden, which, under the bold and inflexible Gus-
tavus, had almost planted its standards on St. Peters-
burg, has, since the loss of Finland, been effectually
separated, by a sea, from the powerftd empire which it
at one time rivalled and attempted to subdue.

It is one of the peculiar advantages of the Russian
position, that with the largest territory, it has a frontier

THE WARS OF EU88IA AND TURKEY. 397

nowhere peculiarly open to invasion. In Warsaw, the
centre of Europe, the Russian armies are stationed as
an advanced guard. On the north, it has, with respect
to Sweden, every advantage of an ultra-marine posi-
tion. Prussia, firom the facility with which its provinces
might be invaded firom Poland, will never seek a dispute
with its overshadowing neighbor. There remains,
therefore, Austria only, with whom England could
concert an opposition toRussian success in Turkey.
But for purposes of foreign aggression, Austria is pecu-
liarly weak, and, most of all, is weak on the side
of Russia. Every page of its history shows how
hard it was obliged to contend for Hungary; how
earnestly it has desired to secure the adjoining pro-
vinces on either side of the Danube ; and the history
which has occasion to record its longing and repeated
efforts to acquire the latter provinces, has also to add
its disappointment and defeat.

There was therefore no help for Turkey, but
in its own resources, and the personal character of its
sovereign. The world has, during the summer of
1829, had occasion to see what they could accomplish.
It seemed doubtful, whether it was easier to win firom
him provinces in Asia or in Europe.

Having thus sought for the origin of the late war
in the hereditary pohcy of the Russian government,
and having explained its rapid issue, from a consider-
ation, first of the difficulties which checked foreign in-

39S flTDIZA IS filSIOKT.

finence, tiien of the weaknes of die Trnkak paver in
eoDseqaenee of domcsoc facdons, md hedr, cf die
peisGDdl debifitT of die idgmng SDhan; it only'ie-
maim to emcneiate tbe tfwng oo wUdi vnr^ was
finaDr oonoeded. Tbe ronriiwinn of die contesl
bag been apdr compared to the tenBomtaaa of the
second Carthaginian wir with Rome. The cases bare
many pcants of analogr. The Bnsaan general, like the
Roman ccmmander, was still a Toang man ; the peace
in each c^e was oondnded, josl as the capital of the
ocmqoered coimtiy was (n the point of beii^ attacked.
The provinces berond the Danube are kst to the
Pcote, as mnch as Spain was to the Carthagbnans.
Greece is to Tnrkej, what Xnmidia was to Carthage.
Bat if Diefaitsch diall be Sdjno, whoe is oar Han-
nibal? On the whole, the Roman aHujoeror pre*
scribed less degrading terms, and acknowledged kss
equivocaDy the independence of Carthage.

The commerce of the Tnrkish empire is surren-
dered to the Russians. They may go to all ports, and
conduct their traflBc almost on their own terms, inde-
pendent of any plenary exercise of Turkish sovereignty.
Every Russian who treads on the Turkish soil is pos-
sessed of immunities which the law of naticHis has
heretofore hardly conceded to ambassadors. The
Turk who may murder a Russian cannot avert from
the Porte a war of annihilation. The Roman tribunes
were, in their persons, hardly held as sacred, or pro-

THE WARS OP RUSSIA AND TUEKET. 399

tected by as severe threats, as is every Russian subject
who may henceforth pass the Danube. The Russian
government retains the privilege of watching over
every one of its citizens, even after they have entered a
foreign territory; and it thus acquires a conditional
right of inquest into every nook and hamlet, every city
and harbor, every bazaar and encampment of the
Turks. The precincts of the seraglio, and the re-
cesses of the mosques, nay, for aught we see, the
presence-chamber of the Sultan, and even the sanctuary
of Mecca itself, are no longer sacred, except by courtesy.

These points, rendering Russians, and Russian
commerce in Turkey, amenable only to Russian au-
thorities, are inconsistent with independence. But
this is not all. By the peace of Adrianople, the Porte
is deprived, eflfectuafly, though indirectly, of the
sovereignty of at least eight parts in nineteen of all
its European possessions. The Peloponnesus with
large additions, Servia, and the FrincipaHties of Mol-
davia and Wallachia, are severed, we trust for ever,
from the Ottoman sway.

Whatever relation Greece may bear to the Porte
and to the rest of Europe, it will stand virtually under
the guardianship of Russia, and, for the preset, will
have with it a community of interests, as of rehgion
and of enemies. Statesmen have not forgotten that
the sovereignty of the Ionian Isles was transferred to
Great Britain through the hands of Russia ; the re-

400 STTBIZS 15 HISTOET.

Tnaining ides and the mam land still offer evtrj tadHtj
for contesting, with EngKsh ambition, the commerce
of the Levant, and the sopremacj in the .£gean
sea. Some protection from abroad is essential to the
new state. Bene tixit, qui bene latuit Greece will
probably be to Russia what Florence was to Austria.

To Servia, the peace of Adrianofde brings hardly
fewer advantages than to Greece. That conntiy, in
extent about as large as Denmark, or as YenmHit and
New Hampshire, has been long swept by the besom of
war, and will probably have to encounter one strug^
more, previous to its entire emancipation. On com-
paring the conditions of the several treaties of Bucha-
rest, Ackermann, and Adrianople, we find that the
Porte retains the citadels of Servia (of which Belgrade
is the chief), and is to receive from the Servians a
moderate tribute. The Russians guaranty, that it shall
not be excessive. The more vague the expression,
the more room is allowed for the interference of the
stronger party. To the Servians are further conceded
privileges equal to those enjoyed by the most favored
provinces, and a right of negotiating under Russian
auspices, to secure to themselves the liberty of worship,
the choice of their own chiefs, freedom of commerce with
all parts of the Turkish territory, the entire domestic
administration, even over property belonging to Mus-
sulmans, and a prohibition to Mussulmans, other than
those appertaining to the garrisons, to establish them-

THB WARS OP RUSSIA AND TURKBT. 401

selves in Servia. Has not Servia, then, ceased to be
a Turkish province? Is the sovereignty of the Sultan
any thing more than nominal? Or; rather, where
does, in truth, the ultimate sovereignty reside ? The
Porte holds the fortresses ; Russia guaranties the hber-
ties of Servia ; the Porte levies a tribute of money ;
Russia has on the affSsctions of the people a hold, which
can open their most secret coffers ; the Porte is ever
ready to prove its power by oppression ; and Russia
confirms to each Christian inhabitant of Servia, the
peaceful enjoyment of his property and its rights.

Respecting the noble provinces of Wallachia and
Moldavia, jointly equal in extent to about three fourths
of Florida, Russia, delaying for the present to daun
them in fee simple, has entered into actual possession,
under a mortgage which will probably never be dis-
charged. Henceforward Austria has every thing to
fear and nothing to hope from a war with her neigh-
bor, who now controls the great highway of Hungarian
conunerce, and has easy access to almost one half of
her frontier. The schemes of Peter the Great are
accomplished. He found an empire which had no
conununication with the great seas of commerce but
through Archangel. His successor is master of the
Baltic, the Caspian, and the Euxine ; and is preparing
to struggle with the English for the ascendency in the
iEgean.

The results of the late war have excited apprehension
26

402 STUDIES TS HISTOET.

m En^and; but not because the British empire in India
has been endangered by it. The ahum about India
is a mere chimera ; and ages must roll away, and one
career of wild ambition be socoeeded by another^
before a Russian Genius wonld ventare to stray into
India with countless hosts of vagrant conqoerors. No !
The points of collision are mnch nearer, less magnifi-
cent in extent, but yet inmiediate and important.
The command of the Archipelago may be disputed
between those who protect the Ionian Isles and the
fosterer of independent Greece. En^and and Russia,
the great European rivals, are, indeed, themselves at
the extremes of the continent ; but the states which
are their respective dients, are atuated almost side by
side, and a predominant influence in the Ionian Isles is
more than counterbalanced by the cluster of Greek
islands in the iEgean, and the deep harbors and noble
bays of continental Greece.

On the whole, the peace of Adrianople is favorable
to the best interests of civilization. Some portions
of regions, on which nature in her kindest mood
has lavished all the elements of prosperity, are now
permitted in security to profit by their natural advan-
tages. Servia gains a respite from oppression; the
means of eventually securing her independence; and
an opportimity of developing her vast, and, as yet,
almost wholly imexplored resources. The principaHties
may now prosper, and the desolate majesty of those

I

THE WAE8 OF EU88IA AND TURKEY. 403

rich but wasted countries yield to the gentle influ-
ences of accumulated wealth and protected industry.
But above all, Greece is restored to the affections
of humanity. Favored by Providence in its situation
and cUmate beyond any portion of Europe, its pros-
perity must be rapid and cheering. If local influ-
ences, the temperature and soil of a country, decide on
the occupations, and in some measure on the character
of its inhabitants, the virtues and genius of antiquity
will under some aspect reappear. However much the
forms of empires may have changed, the great features
of nature remain unimpaired. The same bright sun,
which shone on Plato and Phidias, on the heroes of
Salamis and the orators of the Athenian democracy,
still rolls with undiminished splendor through the clear
sky of Hellas. The streams of the Hyssus and the
Eurotas flow in their wonted channels. The oUve of
Minerva still ripens its firuits, and ripens them once
more for peaceful citizens, who, in their turn, have
struggled against the barbarian for their domestic
Uberties. It is, indeed, Greece, and hving Greece.
She reappears to take her place in the family of na-
tions. Her star ascends brightly through a sky that
no longer lowers.

The remainder of European Turkey lies at the
mercy of its great adversary. If it had strength to
commence the recent struggle, it has, in the present
treaty of Adrianople, resigned every hope of future

404 mn>iEs is KarroKf,

uMDceadol lesktanoe. Indeed, die whole empire of
Turkey is as profitrate befiofe the Car, as Pcisa has
been snce the tennination of its hie war with Bossia.
The infloence of Nidiolas preraib firom die frosen
aoorces of the Torneo to the Persan GjjUL His diqps
ride trimnphanthr in all the Toikish wateis ; die fifes
of his sobjects are charmed against ereij ^^resaioD
and Tiolence throo^ioat the OttcHnan dnmininn He
has won ereiy thing whidi was fgwential to the pros-
perity of the pvorinces whidi admowledge his sway.
He has done something f^x* the cause of famnanity.
Bot now the wcxUL has a yet deqxr interest in the
wise administration oi the internal ctnoems o[ Russia,
and in the personal character of her sovereigiL Since
it would be idle to wish for her many provinces that
Inkiest good which comes from the conflict oi free
opinions, we will hope that he may emulate the mild
virtnes of an Antonine, rather than the less arduous
and less rare distinction of extensive conquest.

OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

A WORD ON CALVIN, THE REFORMER.

NoBTHAMFTOir, Oot. 22, 1884.

It is intolerance only, which would limit the praise
of Calvin to a single sect, or refuse to reverence his vir-
tues and regret his failings. He lived in the time
when nations were shaken to their centre by the ex-
citement of the reformation ; when the fields of Holland
and Fraoce were wet with the carnage of persecution ;
when vindictive monarchs on the one side threatened
all protestants with outlawry and death, and the Vatican
on the other sent forth its anathemas and its cry for
blood. In that day, it is too true, the influence of an
ancient, long established, hardly disputed error, the
constant danger of his position, the intense desire to
secure imion among the antagonists of popery, the
engrossing consciousness that his struggle was for the
emancipation of the Christian world, induced the great
reformer to defend the use of the sword for the extirpa-
tion of heresy. Reprobating and lamenting his adhe-
sion to the cruel doctrine, which all Christendom had

406 OCCASIONAL ADDEESSES.

for centuries impKcitly received, we may, as repub-
licans, remember that Calvin was not only the founder
of a sect, but foremost among the most efficient of
modem republican legislators. More truly benevolent
to the human race than Solon, more self-denying than
Lycurgus, the genius of Calvin infused enduring ele-
ments into the institutions of Geneva, and made it for
the modem world, the impregnable fortress of popular
liberty, the fertile seed-plot of democracy.

We boast of our common schools ; Calvin was the
father of popular education, the inventor of the system
of free schools. We are proud of the free States that
fringe the Atlantic. The pilgrims of Plymouth were
Calvinists ; the best influence in South Carolina came
from the Calvinists of France. William Penn was the
disciple of the Huguenots; the ships from Holland
that first brought colonists to Manhattan were filled
with Calvinists. He that will not honor the memory,
and respect the iafluence of Calvin, knows but little
of the origin of American liberty.

If personal considerations chiefly win applause,
then no one merits our sympathy and our admiration
more than Calvin ; the yoimg exile from France, who
achieved an immortality of fame before he was twenty-
eight years of age ; now boldly reasoning with the king
of France for religious liberty ; now venturing as the
apostle of trath to carry the new doctrines into the heart
of Italy, and hardly escaping from the fury of papal

OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

A WORD ON CALVIN, THE REFORMER.

NoBTHAMFTOir, Oot. 22, 1884.

It is intolerance only, which would limit the praise
of Calvin to a single sect, or refuse to reverence his vir-
tues and regret his failings. He lived in the time
when nations were shaken to their centre by the ex-
citement of the reformation ; when the fields of Holland
and Frauce were wet with the carnage of persecution ;
when vindictive monarchs on the one side threatened
all protestants with outlawry and death, and the Vatican
on the other sent forth its anathemas and its cry for
blood. In that day, it is too true, the influence of an
ancient, long established, hardly disputed error, the
constant danger of his position, the intense desire to
secure union among the antagonists of popery, the
engrossing consciousness that his struggle was for the
emancipation of the Christian world, induced the great
reformer to defend the use of the sword for the extirpa-
tion of heresy. Reprobating and lamenting his adhe-
sion to the cruel doctrine, which all Christendom had

THE OFFICE OF THE PEOPLE IN ABT, GOYERN-
MENT, AND BELI6I0N.

AM OlATIOSr DSLIYEBSD EKFOSK THB ADKLPHI BOCIRT OT WIL-
LIAMBT0W9 OQLLBGI» IH AUeUBT, lOBi

I.

The material world does not change in its masses

<nr in its powers. The stars shine with no more histre

Aan when they first sang together in the ^ory of their

birth. The flowers that gemmed the fields and the

forests, before America was discovered, now bloom

^^jBis i^-^ aronnd us in their season. ''The sun that shone on

'^ ^ i^ Homer shines on us in unchanging lustre!' The bow

^ that beamed on the patriarch stiU gUtters in the

"(^y^-^^ clouds. Nature is the same. For her no new forces

are generated ; no new capacities are discovered. The

earth turns on its axis, and perfects its revolutions, and

renews its seasons, without increase or advancement.

But a like passive destiny does not attach to
the inhabitants of the earth. For them the expecta-
tions of social improvement are no delusion ; the hopes
of philanthropy are more than a dream. The five

THE OFFICE OF THE PEOPLE. 409

Senses do not constitute the whole inventory of our
sources of knowledge. They are the organs by
which thought connects itself with the external uni-
verse; but the power of thought is not merged in
the exercise of its instruments. We have functions
which connect us with heaven, as well as organs
which set us in relation with earth. We have not
merely the senses opening to us the external world,
but an internal sense, which places us in connexion
with the world of intelligence and the decrees of God.

There is a spirit in man: not in the privileged
few; not in those of us only who by the fevor of
Providence have been nursed in public schools : it is /;
IN MAN : it is the attribute of the race. The spirit,
which is the guide to truth, is the gracious gift to each
member of the human family.

Reason exists within every breast. I mean not
that faculty which deduces inferences from the expe-
rience of the senses, but that higher faculty, which
from the infinite treasures of its own consciousness,
originates truth, and assents to it by the force of
intuitive evidence ; that faculty which raises us beyond
the control of time and space, and gives us fedth in
things eternal and invisible. There is not the difference
between one mind and another, which the pride of
philosophers might conceive. To them no faculty is
conceded, which does not belong to the meanest of
their countrymen. In them there can not spring up a

410 OOCJL§:jryAL A3DS£S£ES.

inziL iriacti does z^yi eT^iIy fesie fe ac» ia ererr
nsiixL "Kkt brre s:^ the pi^is- rf creaonjc ; dacr cm
bca r?TeaI Trias: G>i ia:? izqici^ai o e^^ bressc

percerrei are :be cogrrr/jQ e&dbvraBix^ of th? race.
Tie d^&reocEs &ze appanai:. dcc r»L Tlse ere in coe
fenoa is^ be doIL m azKCher qnklL ra coe dksortcd,
and in SEfJdxr tnsqail sod ckar ; ret th^ lebrkxi of
die €Te to Egb: 15 in all men the sKoe. Jose so
jodgmect mar be Ibbie in indrndiul minds to the
bfiK of pypJoQ^ szad T€t iss refatioQ to truth is immo-
table, and is umrasaL

In qoestioQs of {tactical dorr, cnnyipnce fe God's
imqisre, vhose light iDamines ererj heart. There is
nothing in books, which had not first, and has not stiD
its life within us. ReHgion itself is a dead letter,
wLererer its triiths are not renewed in the s»>uL
IndiridTial conscience mar be aMTupted hj interest,
or debauched by pride, yet the mle o( m«aKtT b
distmctlv marked : its harmonies are to the mind like
music to the ear : and the moral judgment, when care-
fully analyzed and referred to its princi|Jes, is ahrap
founded in right. The eastern superstition, which bids
its victims prostrate themselves before the advancing
car of their idols, springs from a noble root, and is but
a melancholy perversion of that self-devotion, which
enables the Christian to bear the cross, and subject his
personal passions to the will of God. ImmoraUty ot

THE OFFICE OF THE PEOPLE. 411

itself never Won to its support the inward voice ; con-
science, if questioned, never forgets to curse the guilty
with the memory of sin, to cheer the upright with the
meek tranquillity of approval. And this admirable
power, which is the instinct of Deity, is the attribute
of every man ; it knocks at the palace gate, it dwells in
the meanest hovel. Duty, like death, enters every
abode, and dehvers its message. Conscience, like
reason and judgment, is universal.

That the moral aflFections are planted every where,
needs only to be asserted to be received. The savage
mother loves her offspring with aU the fondness that a
mother can know. Beneath the odorous shade of the
boundless forests of Chili, the native youth repeats the
story of love as sincerely as it was ever chanted in the
valley of Vaucluse. The affections of fiamily are not
the growth of civilization. The charities of life are
scattered every where ; enamelling the vales of human
being, as the flowers paint the meadows. They are
not the fruit of study, nor the privilege of refinement,
but a natural instinct.

Our age has seen a revolution in works of ima-
gioation. The poet has sought his theme in common
life. Never is the genius of Scott more pathetic, than
when, as in the Antiquary, he delineates the sorrows
of a poor fisherman, or as in the Heart of Mid Lothian,
he takes his heroine from a cottage. And even Words-
worth, the purest and most original poet of the day, in

412 0CCJLSI05A1

wpdt of the meuEOUb Asneta dl ks poficial {vofi-
kctiaes, Isai tfarovn the fizhs cf gams en dse wAs of
coiiz2ZKXies( life: be &uk a ksco in ev9T gnve of the
Tihge cbiiidtAaid; bec&sdoses the hnrnirflfff
of feefing in the pf«gnt, the hborer md the
dK stroflii^ pedcfla* becomes, throng kk geniiB, a
teacher cf the sdUiniest mardtr; md the aoEtixT
wagoner, the kmeh* shefdierd, even the feeUe mother
of an idkc bor, fannAps hssonf in the le^qeuce for
HnmanitT.

If fiptjm things relating to tznth, jisdce; and
aflfection, we torn to those relating to the ItfanuM, we
mar here still finther kbcH, that the sentiment fior the
bcauiiful leades in ererr breast. The kyfelv fonns of
die external world deli^ us firom their adaptation to
oor powers.

Yea, what were mi^tr Xatme's sdf r
Her features could they win ns,

Unhelped by the poetic voice
That hourly speaks within ns?
The Indian mother, on the borders <^ Hudson's
Bay, decorates her manufactures with ingenious de-
vices and lovely colors, prompted by the same instinct
which guided the pencil and mixed the cdc^s of
Raphael. The inhabitant of Xootka Sound tattoos
his body vnth the method of harmonious Arabesques.
Every form, to which the hands of the artist have ever
given birth, sprung first into being as a conception

THE OFFICE OF THE PEOPLE. 418

of his mind, from a natural &culty, which belongs not
to the artist exclusively, but to man. Beauty, like
truth and justice, Uves within us ; like virtue and like
moral law, it is a companion of the soul. The power
which leads to the production of beautiful forms, or to
the perception of them in the works which God has
inade, is an attribute of Humanity.

But I am asked if I despise learning P Shall one
who has spent much of his life in schools and univer-
sities plead the equality of uneducated nature? Is
there no difference between the man of refinement and
the savage P

"I am a man," said Black Hawk nobly to the
chief of the first republic in the world ; " I am a man,"
said the barbarous chieftain, "and you are another."

I speak for the universal diffusion of human
powers, not of human attainments; for the capacity
for progress, not for the perfection of undisciplined
instincts. The fellowship which we should cherish with
the race, receives the Comanche warrior and the
Cafire within the pale of equality. Their functions
may not have been exercised, but they exist. Immure
a person in a dungeon ; as he comes to the light of
day, his vision seems incapable of performing its office.
Does that destroy your conviction in the relation be-
tween the eye and Ught? The rioter over his cups
resolves to eat and drink and be merry; he forgets his
spiritual nature in his obedience to the senses ; but

414 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

does that destroy the relation between consdence and
eternity? " What ransom shall we give ? " exdaimed
the senators of Some to the savage Attila. " Give,"
said the barbarian, "all yonr gold and jewels, your
costly fiimitnre and treasures, and set free every
slave." ''Ah," replied the degenerate Romans,
"what then will be left to us?" "I leave you
your souls," replied the unlettered invader from the
steppes of Asia, who had learnt in the wilderness
to value the immortal mind, and to despise the servOe
herd, that esteemed only their fortunes, and had no
true respect for themselves. You cannot discover a
tribe of men, but you also find the charities of life, and
the proofs of spiritual existence. Behold the ignorant
Algonquin deposit a bow and quiver by the side of the
departed warrior; and recognise his fidth in immor-
tality. See the Comanche chieftain, in the heart of our
continent, inflict on himself severest penance; and
reverence his confession of the needed atonement for
sin. The Barbarian who roams our western prairies
has like passions and like endowments with ourselves.
He bears within him the instinct of Deity ; the con-
sciousness of a spiritual nature; the love of beauty;
the rule of morality.

And shall we reverence the dark-skinned CaSre ?
Shall we respect the brutal Hottentot? You may read
the right answer written on every heart. It bids me
not despise the sable hunter, that gathers a livelihood

THE OFFICE OP THE PEOPLE. 415

in the forests of Southern Africa. All are men.
When we know the Hottentot better, we shall despise
him less.

11.

If it be true, that the gifts of mind and heart are
universally diflFiised, if the sentiment of truth, justice,
love, and beauty exists in every one, then it follows, as
a necessary consequence, that the common judgment in
taste, politics, and religion, is the highest authority on
earth, and the nearest possible approach to an infaUible
decision. From the consideration of individual powers
I turn to the action of the human mind in masses.

If reason is a universal faculty, the universal de-
cision is the nearest criterion of truth. The common
mind winnows opinions ; it is the sieve which separates
error from certainty. The exercise by many of the same
faculty on the same subject would naturally lead to
the same conclusions. But if not, the very diflferences
of opinion that arise prove the supreme judgment
of the general mind. Truth is one. It never con-
tradicts itself. One truth cannot contradict another
truth. Hence truth is a bond of union. But
error not only contradicts truth, but may contra-
dict itself ; . so that there may be many errors, and
each at variance with the rest. Truth is therefore
of necessity an element of harmony ; error as neces-
sarily an element of discord. Thus there can be

416 0CCA8I09AL ABD12SS28.

no coDtiDmng nnhrefsal judgmeiit but a li^ <»e.
Men cannot agree in an absordilj; neither can thej
i^ree in a iiEdseliood.

K wrong opinions hare often been cherished bj
the masses, the cause always ties in the ccMn{de3dtj of
die ideas presented. Enw finds its way into the sool
of a nation, acij throng the diannd <^ troth. It
is to a truth that n^n tisten ; and if they aooqit er-
Tor also, it is ovij because the error is £ur the time
so closely interwoYen widi the truth, that the one
cannot readily be separated firom the other.

Unmixed error can have no existence in the puUic
mind. Wherever you see men clustering together to
form a party, you may be sure that however much
error may be there, truth is there also. Appfy this
principle boldly ; for it contains a lesson of candor,
and a voice of encouragement. There never was
a school of philosophy, nor a clan in the reahn of
opinion, but carried along with it some important
truth. And therefore e\'ery sect that has ever flour-
ished has benefited Humanity; for the errors of a
sect pass away and are forgotten; its truths are re-
ceived into the common inheritance. To know the
seminal thought of every prophet and leader of a
sect, is to gather all the wisdom of mankind.
" By heaven ! there should not be a seer, who left
The world one doctrine, but I'd task his lore.
And commune with his spirit. All the truth

THE OFFICE OF THE PEOPLE. 417

Of all the tongues of earth, I'd have them all,
Had I the powerful spell to raise their ghosts/'
The sentiment of beauty, as it exists in the human
mind, is the criterion in works of art, inspires the con-
ceptions of genius, and exercises a final judgment on
its productions. For who are the best judges in mat-
ters of taste ? Do you think the cultivated individual ?
Undoubtedly not ; but the collective mind. The pub- ^
lie is wiser than the wisest critic. In Athens, the arts
were carried to perfection, when "the fierce demo-
cracie " was in the ascendant ; the temple of Minerva
and the works of Phidias were planned and perfected to
please the common people. When Greece yielded to
tyrants, her genius for excellence in art expired ; or
rather, the purity of taste disappeared ; because the
artist then endeavored to gratify a patron, and there-
fore, humored his caprice ; while before he had en-
deavored to dehght the race.

When, after a long ecKpse, the arts again burst into
a splendid existence, it was equally under a popular I
influence. During the rough contests and feudal
tyrannies of the middle age, rehgion had opened in
the church an asylum for the people. There the serf
and the beggar could kneel ; there the pilgrim and the
laborer were shrived ; and the children of misfortune
not less than the prosperous were welcomed to the
house of prayer. The church was, consequently, at
once the guardian of equality, and the nurse of the
27

418 OCCASIONAL AmnaaoM.

ttts; and the aoub cC Giotto, and Vempao, and
lUfihad, mored bj- an infimle sjmpatlij wilk die
cnmdy kindled into divine concqitkim cC beautiful
fonns. Appealing to the sentiment of defotkai in tbe
commoD nrind, they dipped their pencOs in finng
colors, to deoonte the altazs where man adorod. B^
degrees the wealtl^ nobilitj desired in like manner to
adorn their palaces; bat at the attempt, the quid:
fiuniliantj of the artist with the beaoti&d declined.
Instead of the brilliant woks whidi spdce to the
sool, a schocJ arose, who af^pealed to the senses;
and in the land which had prodnoed the most moving
{nctores, addressed to die religioos feding, and instinct
with die purest beauty, the banquet halls were covefed
with grotesque forms, such as float before the imagina-
tiou, when excited and bewildered by sensual indul-
gence. Instead of holy families, the ideal repre-
sentations of the virgin mother and the godlike child,
of the enduring faith of martyrs, of the blessed
benevolence of evangelic love, there came the modey
group of fawns and satyrs, of Diana stooping to Endy-
mion, of voluptuous beauty, and the forms of licentious-
ness. Humanity frowned on the desecration of the
arts; and painting, no longer vivified by a fellow-
feeling with the multitude, lost its greatness in the
attempt to adapt itself to personal humors.

If with us the arts are destined to a brilliant
career, the inspiration must spring from the vigor of

THE OFFICE OF THE PEOPLE. 419

the people. Genius will not create, to flatter patrons
or decorate saloons. It yearns for larger influences ;
it feeds on wider sympathies ; and its perfect display
can never exist, except in an appeal to the general sen-
timent for the beautiful.

Again. Italy is famed for its musical compositions,
its inimitable operas. It is a well-known fact, that the
best critics are often deceived in their judgment of
them; while the pit, composed of the throng, does,
without feil, render a true verdict.

But the taste for music, it may be said, is favored
by natural oi^anization. Precisely a statement that
sets in a clearer Ught the natural capacity of the race ;
for taste is then not an acquisition, but in part a gift.
But let us pass to works of Uterature.

Who are by way of eminence the poets of all man-
kind ? Surely Homer and Shakspeare. Now Homer
formed his taste, as he wandered from door to door, a
vagrant minstrel, paying for hospitality by a song ; and
Shakspeare wrote for an audience, composed in a great
measure of the common people.

The little story of Paul and Virginia is a universal
favorite. When it was flrst written, the author read it
aloud to a circle in Paris, composed of the wife of the
prime minister, and the choicest critics of Prance.
They condemned it, as dull and insipid. The author
appealed to the pubhc ; and the children of all Europe
reversed the decree of the Parisians. .The judgment

420 OCCASIONAL ABDRKSS18.

of cfafldren, that is, the jadgment cC die coammi nund
under its most inDocent and least impoeing fann, was
move trustworthy than the criticism cC the sdect
refinement of the most pdished dtj in the wcnld.

Demosthenes of dd formed himself to die peifecticm
of doquence by means of addresses to the crowd. The
great comic port of Greece, emphatically the poet <^ the
vulgar mob, is distinguished above all others for the
incomparable graces of his diction ; and it is related of
<Hie of the most skilfdl writers in the Itahan, that
when inquired of where he had learned the purity and
nationality of his style, he replied, frcHu listening to
die country people, as they brought their ]ffoduoe
to market.

At the revival of letters a distinguishing feature of
the rising literature was the employment of the dialect
of the vulgar. Dante used the language of the popu-
lace and won inmiortality ; Wickliffe, Luther, and at a
later day Descartes, each employed his mother tongue,
and carried truth directly to all who were fEimiliar
with its accents. Every beneficent revolution in letters
has the character of popularity; every great reform
among authors has sprung fix)m the power of the
people in its influence on the development and activity
of mind.

The same influence continues unimpaired. Scott, in
spite of his reverence for the aristocracy, spumed a draw-
ing-room reputation ; the secret of Byron's superiority

THE OFFICE OF THE PEOPLE. 421

lay in part in the agreement which existed between his
muse and the democratic tendency of the age. Ger-
man literature is almost entirely a popular creation.
It was fostered by no monarch ; it was dandled by no
aristocracy. It was plebeian in its origin^ and therefore
manly in its results.

III.

In like manner the best government rests on the
people and not on the few, on persons and not on
property, on the free development of public opinion and
not on authority ; because the munificent Author of our
being has conferred the gifts of mind upon every mem-
ber of the human race without distinction of outward
circumstances. Whatever of other possessions may be
engrossed, mind asserts its own independence. Lands,
estates, the produce of mines, the prolific abundance of
the seas, may be usurped by a privileged class.
Avarice, assuming the form of ambitious power, may
grasp realm after realm, subdue continents, compass
the earth in its schemes of aggrandizement, and sigh
after other worlds ; but mind eludes the power of ap-
propriation ; it exists only in its own individuality ; it
is a property which cannot be confiscated and cannot
be torn away ; it laughs at chains ; it bursts from im-
prisonment; it defies monopoly. A government of
equal rights must, therefore, rest upon mind; not
wealth, not brute force, the sum of the moral intel-

422 OCCASIONAL ADDBE88B8.

ligence of the commuiiity should rule the State. Pre-
scription can no more assume to be a valid plea for
political injustice; society studies to eradicate estab-
lished abuses, and to bring social institutions and
laws into harmony with moral right ; not dismayed by
the natural and necessary imperfections of aU human
effort, and not giving way to despair, because every
hope does not at once ripen into firuit.

The public happiness is the true object of legis-
lation, and can be secured only by the masses of
mankind themselves awakening to the knowledge and
the care of their own interests. Our free institutions
have reversed the false and ignoble distinctions between
men ; and refusing to gratify the pride of caste, have
acknowledged the common mind to be the true mate-
rial for a commonwealth. Every thing has hitherto
been done for the happy few. It is not possible to
endow an aristocracy with greater benefits than they
have ahready enjoyed ; there is no room to hope that
individuals will be more highly gifted or more fully
r developed than the greatest sages of past times. The
world can advance only through the culture of the
moral and intellectual powers of the people. To
accomplish this end by means of the people themselves,
is the highest purpose of government. If it be the
duty of the individual to strive after a perfection like
the perfection of Grod, how much more ought a nation
to be the image of Deity. The common mind is the

THE OFFICE OF THE PEOPLE. 42S

trae Parian marble, fit to be wrought into likeness to a
God. The duty of America is to secure the culture
and the happiness of the masses by their reliance on
themselves.

The absence of the prejudices of the old world
leaves us here the opportunity of consulting inde-
pendent truth ; and man is left to apply the instinct of
freedom to every social relation and pubUc interest.
We have approached so near to nature, that we can
hear her gentlest whispers ; we have made Humanity ^
our lawgiver and our oracle ; and, therefore, the nation
receives, vivifies and appUes principles, which in Europe
the wisest accept with distrust. Freedom of mind and ^
of conscience, freedom of the seas, freedom of industry,
equality of franchises, each great truth is firmly grasped,
comprehended and enforced; for the multitude is
neither rash nor fickle. In truth, it is less fickle than
those who profess to be its guides. Its natural dia-
lectics surpass the logic of the schools. Political action
has never been so consistent and so unwavering, as
when it results from a feeling or a principle, diffused ^
through society. The people is firm and tranquil in
its movements, and necessarily acts with moderation,
because it becomes but slowly impregnated with new
ideas ; and effects no changes, except in harmony with
the knowledge which it has acquired. Besides, where
it is permanently possessed of power, there exists
neither the occasion nor the desire for frequent change.

424 OCCASIOHAL ADDBX8SSS.

It is not the parent of tmnnlt ; seditkHi is bred in, the
hp of loxnry, and its cbosen emissaries are the beg-
gared spendthrift and the impoverished libertine. The
government by the people is in very troth the strong-
est government in the world. Discarding the imjde-
ments of terror, it dares to role by moral force, and
has its citadel in the heart.

Soch is the political system which rests on reason,
reflection, and the free expression of deliberate choice.
l%ere may be those who scoff at the suggestion, that
the decision of the whole isto be prrferred to the judg-
ment of the enlightened few. They say in their hearts
that the masses are ignorant; that fermers know
nothing of legislation ; that mechanics should not quit
their workshops to join in forming public opinion. But
true political science does indeed venerate the masses.
It maintains, not as has been perversely asserted, that
" the people can make right," but that the people can
DISCERN right. Individuals are but shadows, too often
engrossed by the pursuit of shadows ; the race is im-
mortal : individuals are of limited sagacity ; the com-
mon mind is infinite in its experience : individuals are
languid and blind ; the many are ever wakeful : indi-
viduals are corrupt; the race has been redeemed:
individuals arc time-serving ; the masses are fearless :
individuals may be false, the masses are ingenuous and
sincere : individuals claim the divine sanction of truth
for the deceitful conceptions of their own fancies ; the

THE OFFICE OF THE PEOPLE. 425

Spirit of God breathes through the combined intelli-
gence of the people. Truth is not to be ascertained by
the impulses of an individual ; it emerges from the
contradictions of personal opinions ; it raises itself in
majestic serenity above the strifes of parties and the
conflict of sects ; it acknowledges neither the soUtary
mind, nor the separate faction as its oracle ; but owns
as its only faithful interpreter the dictates of pure
reason itself, proclaimed by the general voice of man-
kind. The decrees of the universal conscience are the
nearest approach to the presence of God in the soul
of man.

Thus the opinion which we respect is, indeed,
not the opinion of one or of a few, but the sa-
gacity of the many. It is hard for the pride of culti-
vated philosophy to put its ear to the ground, and
listen reverently to the voice of lowly humanity ; yet the
people collectively are wiser than the most gifted indi-
vidual, for all his wisdom constitutes but a pdrt of
theirs. When the great sculptor of Greece was en-
deavoring to fashion the perfect model of beauty, he
did not passively imitate the form of the loveliest
woman of his age; but he gleaned the several linea-
ments of his faultless work from the many. And so it
is, that a perfect judgment is the result of comparison,
when error eliminates error, and truth is established by
concurring witnesses. The organ of truth is the in-
visible decision of the unbiased world; she pleads

426 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

before no tribunal but public opiuion; she owns no
safe interpreter but the common mind ; she knows no
court of appeals but the soul of humanity. It is
when the multitude give counsel, that right purposes
find safety; theirs is the fixedness that cannot be
shaken ; theirs is the understanding which exceeds in
wisdom ; theirs is the heart, of which the largeness is
as the sand on the sea-shore.

It is not by vast armies, by immense natural re-
sources, by accumidations of treasure, that the greatest
results in modem civilization have been accomplished.
The traces of the career of conquest pass away, hardly
leaving a scar on the national intelligence. The feimous
battle grounds of victory are, most of them, comparative-
ly indifferent to the human race ; barren fields of blood,
the scourges of their times, but affecting the social con-
dition as little as the raging of a pestilence. Not one
benevolent institution, not one ameliorating principle
in the Roman state, was a voluntary concession of the
aristocracy; each useful element was borrowed from
the Democracies of Greece, or was a reluctant con-
cession to the demands of the people. The same is
true in modem political life. It is the confession of an
enemy to Democracy, that " all the great and noble

INSTITUTIONS OF THE WORLD HAVE COME FROM POPULAR
EFFORTS."

It is the imiform tendency of the popular element
to elevate and bless Humanity. The exact measure

THE OFFICE OF THE PEOPLE. 427

of the progress of civilization is the degree in which \
the intelUgence of the common mind has prevailed over
wealth and brute force ; in other words, the measure
of the progress of civilization is the progress of the
people. Every great object, connected with the be-
nevolent exertions of the day, has reference to the
culture of those powers which are alone the common
inheritance. For this the envoys of religion cross seas,
and visit remotest isles ; for this the press in its free-
dom teems with the productions of maturest thought ;
for this the philanthropist plans new schemes of educa-
tion ; for this halls in every city and village are open to
the public instructor. Not that we view with indif-
ference the glorious efforts of material industry; the
increase in the facility of internal intercourse ; the accu-
mulations of thrifty labor ; the varied results of concen-
trated action. But even there it is mind that achieves
the triumph. It is the genius of the architect that
gives beauty to the work of human hands, and makes
the temple, the dwelling, or the public edifice, an out-
ward representation of the spirit of propriety and order.
It is science that guides the blind zeal of cupidity to
the construction of the vast channels of communication,
which are fast binding the world into one fEtmily.
And it is as a method of moral improvement, that these
swifter means of intercourse derive their greatest
value. Mind becomes universal property; the poem
that is published on the soil of England, finds its

428 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

response on the shores of lake Erie and the banks of
the Missouri, and is admired near the sources of the
Ganges. The defence of pubUc Uberty in our own
halls of legislation penetrates the plains of Poland, is
echoed along the mountains of Greece, and pierces the
darkest night of eastern despotism.

The imiversaUty of the intellectual and moral
powers, and the necessity of their development for the
progress of the race, proclaim the great doctrine of the
natural right of every human being to moral and intel-
lectual culture. It is the glory of our fathers to have
estabUshed in their laws the equal claims of every child
to the pubUc care of its morals and its mind. From
this principle we may deduce the universal right to
leisure ; that is, to time not appropriated to material
purposes, but reserved for the culture of the moral
affections and the mind. It does not tolerate the ex-
clusive enjoyment of leisure by a privileged class ; but
defending the rights of labor, would suffer none to
sacrifice the higher purposes of existence in unceasing
toil for that which is not life. Such is the voice of
nature ; such the conscious claim of the human mind.
The universe opens its pages to every eye ; the music
of creation resounds in every ear ; the glorious lessons
of immortal truth, that are written in the sky and on
the earth, address themselves to every mind, and claim
attention from every human being. God has made
man upright, that he might look before and after ; and

THE OFFICE OF THE PEOPLE. 429

he calls upon every one not merely to labor, but to
reflect ; not merely to practise the revelations of divine
will, but to contemplate the displays of divine power.
Nature claims for every man leisure, for she claims
every man as a witness to the divine glory, manifested
in the created world.

" Yet evermore, through years renewed
In undisturbed vicissitude
Of seasons balancing their flight
On the swift wings of day and night.
Kind nature keeps a heavenly door
Wide open for the scattered poor.
Where flower-breathed incense to the skies
Is wafted in mute harmonies ;
And ground fresh cloven by the plough
Is fragrant with an humbler vow ;
Where birds and brooks from leafy dells
Chime forth unwearied canticles.
And vapors magnify and spread
The glory of the sun's bright head ;
Still constant in her worship, still
Conforming to the Almighty Will,
Whether men sow or reap the fields.
Her admonitions nature yields ;
That not by bread alone we Uve,
Or what a hand of flesh can give ;
That every day should leave some part
Eree for a sabbath of the heart ;

430 OCCAH09AL ADH

So shall die wcwealk be tralr blot.
From motn to eve, wkk lufltmcd i

Hie r^it to mnreml crfncatiow being
knovledged bj oar conacie&oe, not kat tbn branr
kin, it foDoiTB, tkat tbe people is tbe tme itiupiuit cf
trnth. Do not setk to fonrifateindifidnilB; do not
diead the froms of m sect; do not jkid to the pro-
flcnptKHis of m party ; but poor oat trathmto the com-
mon nuiuL Let the wnUn of intdligenee. Eke die
nms of heairen, descend on the iriiofe eardi. And
be not dkoooraged bj the dread of cacumiteriii^
ignorance. He pnjMdiea cf ifmoramce an wu/re
eamly rewtoced ttam tie pr^mdieeB af imtered ; tie
first are blindly adopted; tie seeamd wilfidhf frrferred,
Intdligenoe nmst be diffosed among the iriiofe pec^ ;
truth must be scattered anuHig those who hare no
interest to suppress its growdL The seeds that M on
the exchange, or in the ham of business, mar be
choked by the thorns that spring up in the hotbed
of avarice; the seeds that are let isSi in the saloon,
may be like those dropped by the wayside, which take
no root. Let the young aspirant after g^ory scatter
the seeds of truth broadcast on the wide boscnn of Hu-
manity ; in the deep, fertile soil of the pubhc mind.
There it will strike deep root and spring up, and bear
an hundred-fold, and bloom for ages, and ripen fruit
through remote generations.

It is alone by infusing great principles into the

THE OFFICE OF THE PEOPLE. 431

common mind, that revolutions in human society are
brought about. They never have been, they never can
be, effected by superior individual excellence. The age
of the Antonines is the age of the greatest glory of the
Roman empire. Men distinguished by every accom-
plishment of culture and science, for a century in suc-
cession, possessed undisputed sway over more than a
hundred millions of men ; till at last, in the person of
Mark Aurelian, philosophy herself seemed to moimt the
throne. And did she stay the downward tendencies
of the Roman empire P Did she infuse new elements
of life into the decaying constitution? Did she com-
mence one great, beneficent reform? Not one perma-
nent amelioration was effected ; philosophy was clothed
with absolute power ; and yet absolute power accom-
plished nothing for Humanity. It could accomplish
nothing. Had it been possible, Aurelian would have
wrought a change. Society can be regenerated, the
human race can be advanced, only by moral prin-
ciples diffused through the multitude.

And now let us take an opposite instance ; let us
see, if amelioration follows, when in despite of tyranny
truth finds access to the common people ; and Chris-
tianity itself shall fiimish my example.

When Christianity first made its way into Rome,
the imperial city was the seat of wealth, philosophy, and
luxury. Absolute government was already established ;
and had the will of Claudius been gained, or the con-

432 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

science of Messalina been roused, or the heart of Nar-
cissus, once a slave, then prime minister, been touched
by the recollections of his misfortunes, the aid of the
sovereign of the civilized world would have been
engaged. And did the messenger of divine truth
make his appeal to them? Was his mission to the
emperor and his minions? to the empress and her
flatterers? to servile senators? to wealthy favorites?
Paul preserves for us the names of the first converts ;
the Roman Mary and Junia; Julia and Nerea; and
the beloved brethren ; all plebeian names, unknown to
history. " Greet them," he adds, " that be of the
household of Narcissus." Now every Roman house-
hold was a community of slaves. Narcissus himself, a
fireedman, was the chief minister of the Roman em-
pire ; his ambition had left him no moments for the
envoy from Calvary ; the friends of Paul were a freed-
man's slaves. When God selected the channel by
which Christianity should make its way in the city of
Rome, and assuredly be carried forward to acknow-
ledged supremacy in the Roman empire, he gave to the
Apostle of the Gentiles favor in the household of Nar-
cissus ; he planted truth deep in the common soil. Had
Christianity been received at court, it would have been
stifled or corrupted by the prodigal vices of the age ; it
Uved in the hearts of the common people ; it sheltered
itself against oppression in the catacombs and among
tombs ; it made misfortime its convert, and sorrow its

THE OPFICB OP THE PEOPLE. 433

companion, and labor its stay. It rested on a rock,
for it rested on the people ; it was gifted with immor-
tality, for it struck root in the hearts of the million.

So completely was this greatest of all reforms
carried forward in the vale of life, that the great moral
revolution, the great step of God's Providence in the
education of the human race, was not observed by the
Roman historians. Once, indeed, at this early period
Christians are mentioned; for in the reign of Nero,
their purity being hateful to the corrupt, Nero aban-
doned them to persecution. In the darkness of mid-
night, they were covered with pitch and set on fire to
Hght the streets of Rome, and this singularity has been
recorded. But their system of morals and reUgion,
though it was the new birth of the world, escaped
all notice.

Paul, who was a Roman citizen, was beheaded,
just outside of the walls of the eternal city ; and Peter,
who was a plebeian, and could not claim the distinction
of the axe and the block, was executed on the cross,
with his head downwards to increase the pain and the
indignity. Do you think the Roman emperor took
notice of the names of these men, when he signed their
death-warrant ? And yet, as they poured truth into
the common mind, what series of kings, what Knes of
emperors can compare with them, in their influence on
the destinies of mankind ?

Yes, reforms in society are only eflfected through the
28

484 OCCASIONAL ADDBS88S8.

masses of the people, and through them have contiimally
taken place. New truths have been successively devel-
oped, and, becoming the common property of the human
£amily, have improved its condition. This progress is
advanced by every sect, precisely because each sect, to
obtain vitality, does of necessity embody a truth ; by
every political party, for the conflicts of party are the
war of ideas ; by every nationality, for a nation cannot
exist as such, till humanity makes it a special trustee
of some part of its wealth for the ultimate benefit of
all. The irresistible tendency of the human race is
^ therefore to advancement, for absolute power has never
succeeded, and can never succeed, in suppressing a
single truth. An idea once revealed may find its
admission into every living breast and live there.
Like God it becomes immortal and omnipresent. The
movement of the species is upward, irresistibly upward.
The individual is often lost; Providence never disowns
the race. No principle once promulgated, has ever
been forgotten. No "timely tramp" of a despot's
foot ever trod out one idea. The world cannot retro-
grade; the dark ages cannot return. Dynasties perish ;
cities are buried ; nations have been victims to
error, or martyrs for right ; Humanity has always been
on the advance ; gaining maturity, universality, and
power.

Yes, truth is immortal ; it cannot be destroyed ; it
is invincible, it cannot long be resisted. Not every

THE OFFICE OF THE PEOPLE. 485

great principle has yet been generated ; but when once
proclaimed and diiBFdsed, it lives without end, in the safe
custody of the race. States may pass away; every
just principle of legislation which has been once estab-
lished will endure. Philosophy has sometimes forgot-
ten God; a great people never did. The skepticism
of the last century could not uproot Christianity, be-
cause it Uved in the hearts of the millions. Do you
think that infidelity is spreading ? Christianity never
lived in the hearts of so many millions as at this mo-
ment The forms imder which it is professed may de-
cay, for they, like all that is the work of man's hands,
are subject to the changes and chances of mortal being ;
but the spirit of truth is incorruptible ; it may be de-
veloped, illustrated, and appHed; it never can die ; it
never can decline.

No truth can perish; no truth can pass away.
The flame is imdying, though generations disappear.
Wherever moral truth has started into being, Human-
ity claims and guards the bequest. Each generation
gathers together the imperishable children of the past,
and increases them by new sons of light, alike radiant
with immortality.

WILLIAM KLLSBY CHA5KIN6.

Let 08 iqciee, that in oar oirn day the grot doc-
tiine of Fiee Iiiqinijhss been renewed, iqdield, and
more widelj af^died, bj the refined intel%enoe and
genial boieTdaioe of William EQeiy Channing. Free
hifcparj was the great role wfaidi he incolcated, not ibr
the maturity of age only, but for the ardent coriosit?
of youth ; for be knew that Freedom, &r firom leading
to infidditr, strires for certainty, and is restless in
pursuit of a wdl-grounded convicticHi. Freedcmi of
mind he claimed, th^efore, for erery pursuit of the
human faculties ; not for professors only, but fcM*
scholars; not in material science alone, but where
authority had been most revered, in theology and the
church.

Nor did he confine this liberty to theoretic specu-
lations ; he claimed it also in politics, and the theoiy
of social relations. Not that he was a politician ; Chan-
ning could be classed with no political party. He stood
aloof from them all ; and sought rather behind the

WILLIAM BLLEBT CHANNIN6. 437

douds of party strife, to discover the universal princi-
ples that sway events and guide the centuries. He
turned from men to the central light ; he looked towards
the region of absolute truth, of perfect justice. The
laws of the moral world, as they come from the Eter-
nal Mind, were the objects of his study; and he
claimed for every man the right of calmly, fearlessly
contemplating them, and of seeking to carry them into
the affairs of life. What though enthusiasts might
misimderstand and misapply them? His only cure
for impetuous fanaticism, was to seize clearly on the
great precept which it blindly adopted ; to substitute
for the hastiness of zeal the persuasion of sincerity and
the cahner conduct of wisdom. There is not a mo-
ment, when the tendencies to reform do not assume a
thousand visionary, strange and fantastic shapes. All
this could not startle the purposes or alarm the serene
mind of Channing. He knew that there was no way
to dispel these forms of terror but by the light of chari-
ty and reason ; and he never swerved from his high
career, whether of subjecting the institutions of our
times to discussion, or applying the rules of universal
morality to the business of the nation.

With powers of such astonishing brilliancy as those
which Channing possessed, united with his determined
purpose of never allowing himself to be blinded to the ab-
stract right by the fact of the existing law, it is not won-
derftd that his career should, by many, have been con-

43S occasiosaIm add:

temjdated with apffrAeaaaak and ef€ii with draiL
Yor who oookl say to what refofaitioiis tha manljr
assefticMi of natural rig^ m^^ oondoct ? Whooould
set a hunt to the purposes of icfomiy when it demanded
immediatdT the appiicatiofi of abaolnte tmth? But
death annihilates ^lat aknn. The fear of soddeo
diange bj his agencr, Tanishes; and, from the re-
cesses of Gonsdenoe, imnMxtal witnesses rise op to
ccmfinn his thTilKng orades. Prejudice befofe nd^
confine his influence ; by death {Hejodice is annihilated,
and the edioes of his doqnence are heard beyond its
fcHiner boonds ; as the firagrance of predons peifinnes,
when the Yase that hdd them is broken, diflfoses its^
abroad without fimits.

And yet, while we lift up our own minds to recdro
the sublime lessons which he uttered, if we look back
upon his life, we shall find his love of refonn balanced
by a love of order, and the eiqianme energies of his
benevolence restrained by a spirit of conservatism.
He was not the mariner who eagerfy lifts the anchcnr,
spreads all his canvas, and embarks on the ocean
of experiment; he resembled rather the seer, who
stands on the high cliff along the shore, and gazes
to see what wind is rising, and giv^ his prayers, and
his counsels and benedictions to the more adventurous,
who set saiL And sometimes he would call back the
enterprising reformer ; nor would he attempt progress

WILLIAM £LL£BT CHANNINO. 439

by methods of disorder and riot, or even of party
organization; he would rather postpone the estab-
lishment of a right than seek to assert it by blood-
shed and violence ; like the Jewish mother who sub-
mitted to be withheld from her offspring for a season,
through fear lest, otherwise, her child should be rent
in twam.

And yet this abhorrence of violence hardly partook
of timidity, certainly did not spring from a deficiency
of decision. Did you consider his delicate organ-
ization, his light and frail frame, his sensitiveness to
agreeable impressions, the exquisite culture of his taste,
you might apprehend a want of firmness ; but it was
not so. He towered above the mediocrity of society,
like the delicate and airy shafts of Melrose Abbey, of
which the foliaged tracery seems woven of osier
wreaths, and yet, as if changed by a fairy's spell,
proves to be of stone. Like them his purposes
were durable, unyielding, and aspiring to the skies.
Even sympathy, that which he loved most, he sacrificed
to duty ; and gave up the present applause of those
by whom he was surrounded, rather than fail to win
the world for his audience, and coming generations for
his fame.

This firmness rested in an entire faith in moral
power to renovate the race. Not the organized
union of men, not temperance societies, not abolition

440 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

societies, not conventions ; moral power was to him
the Egeria that dictated, the energy that accompUshed
reform. Hence, while he objected to associations, he
was ever ready to advocate the great moral purposes
for which men come together. Was he not among the
first to rebuke the international selfishness that has so
long held the conmierce of the world in bonds ? Was
he not among the first to raise his voice against the
criminality of war, the opprobrium of humanity ? Who
like him gathered the crowd to recognise the great
lesson of temperance, carrying restoration to the de-
sponding and feeble of will ? Who like him asserted
the moral dignity of man, irrespective of wealth and
rank? Indeed, one could hardly hear him on any
public occasion, or even in private, but the great truth
of man's equality, as a consequence of his divine birth,
struggled for utterance. He knew that man was made
in the image of God ; that the gift of reason opened to
him the path to the knowledge of creation, and to mas-
tery over its powers. Having the highest reverence
for genius, he yet acknowledged the image of the divine
original in every himian being ; and how often have his
teachings repeated to many of us the doctrine so well
expressed by one of our own poets :

" Nor scour the seas, nor sift mankind,
A poet or a friend to find ;
Behold, he watches at the door.
Behold his shadow on the floor ;

WILLIAM SLLEBT CHANNING. 441

* * * the Pariah hind
Admits thee to the Perfect Mind."
Hence Channing became the advocate of equality;
recognised the power of the people as the great result
of the modem centuries ; and, knowing well that labor
is the lot of man, that every mechanic art must be ex-
ercised, every service in life ftdfilled, he sought to
dignify labor and exalt its character ; not to lift the
laborer out of his class, but to elevate that class into
the highest regions of moral culture and enjoyment.
And his efforts were in part at least rewarded. His
words reached those for whose benefit they were
spoken ; and at his funeral, next to the fortitude with
which his immediate friends had learned from him to
bear affliction, the most touching spectacle was to see
the laborers gathering near the aisles to pay one last
tribute of gratitude to the remains of their counsellor.

Nor could the clear mind of Charming turn from
foflowing his convictions to their results, with aU the
power of dialectics that gained its warmth from be-
nevolence, its energy from moral conviction. I remem-
ber well the day when he first pubUcly appeared as the
advocate of the negro slave ; after a discourse of
heart-rending eloquence, he did not so much complain
of, as regret the want of sympathy. His gentle voice
is hushed ; his eye will not again flash on us indigna-
tion; the spiritual life that beamed from him is re-
moved. Now that he is in his grave, now that the most

442 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

tiinid can no longer fear from his influence divisions in
church or in society, let us honor his memory by own-
ing, that, in his main doctrine, he was in the right.
Nor was his declaration respecting slavery an accidental
phenomenon in his career ; it lay at the very heart and
core of his whole system of theology. His was a spirit
that in its rapt trances sought intimate communion
with the Divine ; yet, shrinking alike from the terror of
fixed decrees and the fatalism of Pantheism, binding
alike destiny and chance to the footstool of God's throne,
he was from the first an advocate for the free agency of
man. This was the great central point of his theology,
his morals, his metaphysics, his poUtics. Human free-
dom under the sanction of moral power, human freedom
as the prerogative of mind, human freedom as the ne-
cessity of consciousness, human freedom as the in-
destructible principle in the citadel of conscience, — ^this
was his whole theory; this animated his life; this
alone led him into the fields of controversy ; and in the
ftdl maturity of years, with that faith, and with the
deep reverence for the Deity, which contemplates him
always, and sees him every where, he could not but
rush to the conclusion that slavery is a wrong ; a crime
against himianity as well as a crime against God.

It was by degrees, after a struggle of years,
that he burst the limits of social and sectarian narrow-
ness, and rising ever higher and higher, became the
advocate of universal truths and the champion of hu-

WILLIAM ELLEBT CHANNINQ. 448

manity. Not a city, not a faction, the mystic voice of
the universe inspired him ; as I have seen an iEoKan
harp placed at first where it failed to respond to the
air, then lifted from bough to bough, higher and still
higher, till at last it reached a point, where the winds
of heaven breathed through it freely, and called forth
music that seemed to descend from above. Channing
was at first touched by the influence of a sect and a
party, by the spirit of locality and narrower engage-
ments; but he moved ever upward; till soaring fer
beyond a parish or a caste, a political fiEu^on or a lim-
ited polemical theology, in the higher sphere of his
existence, the spirit of the world rushed fervidly amidst
the trembling strings ; and

Prom his sweet harp flew forth

Immortal harmonies, of power to still
All passiQus bom on earth.
And draw the ardent will
Its destiny of goodness to fulfil.

OBATION,

DIEjyXBKD AT THE OOIOCEMOBATION, IN WASHINGTON, OIT THE
DEATH OF ANDREW JACKSON, « UNE ST, 1845^

The men of the American revolution are no more.
That age of creative power has passed away. The
last surviving signer of the Declaration of Independence
has long since left the earth. Washington lies near
his own Potomac, surrounded by his family and his
servants. Adams, the colossus of independence, re-
poses in the modest grave-yard of his native xegion.
JeflFerson sleeps on the heights of his own Monticeflo,
whence his eye overlooked his beloved Virginia. Mad-
ison, the last survivor of the men who made our con-
stitution, Uves only in our hearts. But who shall say
that the heroes, in whom the image of God shone most
brightly, do not exist for ever ? They were filled with
the vast conceptions which caUed America into being ;
they lived for those conceptions; and their deeds
praise them.

We are met to commemorate the virtues of one
who shed his blood for our independence, took part in

COMMEMORATION OF ANDREW JACKSON. 445

winning the territory and forming the early institutions
of the West, and was imbued with all the great ideas
which constitute the moral force of our country. On
the spot where he gave his solemn fealty to the peo-
ple— ^here, where he pledged himself before the world
to freedom, to the constitution, and to the laws — we
meet to pay our tribute to the memory of the last great
name, which gathers round itself aU the associations
that form the glory of America.

South Carolina gave a birth-place to Andrew
Jackson. On its remote frontier, fieur up on the
forest-clad banks of the Catawba, in a region where
the settlers were just beginning to cluster, his eye first
saw the light. There his infancy sported in the an-
cient forests, and his mind was nursed to freedom by
their influence. He was the youngest son of an Irish
emigrant, of Scottish origin, who, two years after the
great war of Frederic of Prussia, fled to America for
reUef from indigence and oppression. His birth was in
1767, at a time when the people of our land were but
a body of dependent colonists, scarcely more than two
millions in number, scattered along an immense coast,
with no army, or navy, or union; and exposed to the
attempts of England to control America by the aid of
military force. His boyhood grew up in the midst of
the contest with Great Britain. The first great politi-
cal truth that reached his heart, was, that aU men are

446 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

free and equal ; the first great fact that beamed on his
understanding, was his country's independence.

The strife, as it increased, came near the shades of
his own upland residence. As a boy of thirteen, he
witnessed the scenes of horror that accompany civil
war ; and when but a year older, with an elder brother,
he shouldered his musket, and went forth to strike a
blow for his country.

Joyous era for America and for humanity ! But
for him, the orphan boy, the events were full of agony
and grief. His father was no more. His oldest
brother fell a victim to the war of the revolution;
another, his companion in arms, died of wounds
received in their joint captivity; his mother went
down to the grave a victim to grief and efforts to
rescue her sons ; and when peace came, he was alone
in the world, with no kindred to cherish him, and
little inheritance but his own untried powers.

The nation which emancipated itself from British
rule organizes itself; the confederation gives way to
the constitution ; the perfecting of that constitution —
that grand event of the thousand years of modem his-
tory-^is accomplished; America exists as a people,
gams unity as a government, and assumes its place
among the nations of the earth.

The next great office to be performed by America,
is the taking possession of the wilderness. The mag-
nificent western valley cried out to the civilization of

COMMEMORATION OF ANDREW JACKSON. 447

popular power, that the season had come for its occu-
pation by cultivated man.

Behold, then, our orphan hero, sternly earnest,
consecrated to humanity from childhood by sorrow,
having neither father, nor mother, nor sister, nor sur-
viving brother, so young and yet so soUtary, and
therefore bound the more closely to collective man-
behold him elect for his lot to go forth and assist in
laying the foundations of society in the great valley of
the Mississippi.

At the very time when Washington was pledging his
own and future generations to the support of the
popular institutions which were to be the Kght of the
human race — at the time when the governments of the
Old World were rocking to their centre, and the
mighty fabric that had come down from the middle
ages was falling in — ^the adventurous Jackson, in the
radiant glory and boundless hope and confident in-
trepidity of twenty-one, plunged into the wilderness,
crossed the great mountain-barrier that divides the
western waters from the Atlantic, followed the paths of
the early hunters and fugitives, and, not content with
the nearer neighborhood to his-parent State, went still
further and further to the west, till he found his home
in the most beautiful region on the Cumberland.
There, from the first, he was recognised as the great
pioneer; and in his courage, the coming emigrants
were sure to find a shield.

448 OCCASIONAL ADDKE88S8.

The lovers of adventure began to pour themselves
mto the territory, whose delicious climate and fertile
soil invited the presence of social man. The hunter,
with his rifle and his axe, attended by his wife and
children ; the herdsman, driving the few cattle that
were to multiply as they browsed ; the cultivator of
the soil, — all came to the inviting region. Wherever
the bending mountains opened a pass — ^wherever the
buffaloes and the beasts of the forest had made a trace,
these sons of nature, children of humanity, in the
highest sentiment of personal freedom, came to oc-
cupy the lovely wilderness, whose prairies blossomed
every where profusely with wild flowers — whose
woods in spring put to shame, by their magnificence,
the cultivated gardens of man.

And now that these unlettered fugitives, educated
only by the spirit of freedom, destitute of dead letter
erudition, but sharing the living ideas of the age, had
made their homes in the West, what would follow?
Would they degrade themselves to ignorance and infi-
deUty ? Would they make the soUtudes of the desert ex-
cuses for Ucentiousness ? Would the hatred of exces-
sive restraint lead them to live in unorganized society,
destitute of laws and fixed institutions ?

At a time when European society was becoming
broken in pieces, scattered, disunited, and resolved
into its elements, a scene ensued in Tennessee, than

COMMEMORATION OF ANDREW JACKSON. 449

which nothing more beautifully grand is recorded in
the annals of the race.

These adventurers in the wilderness longed to
come togethe^in organized society. The overshadow-
ing genius of their time inspired them with. good
designs, and filled them with the counsels of wisdom.
Dwellers in the forest, freest of the free, bound in the
spirit, they came up by their representatives, on foot,
on horseback, through the forest, along the streams, by
the buffalo traces, by the Indian paths, by the blazed
forest avenues, to meet in convention among the moun-
tains of Knoxville, and device for themselves a consti-
tution. Andrew Jackson was there, the greatest man
of them aU — ^modest, bold, determined, demanding
nothing for himself, and shrinking from nothing that
his heart approved.

The convention came together on the eleventh day
of January, 1796, and finished its work on the sixth
day of February. How had the wisdom of the Old
World vainly tasked itself to devise constitutions, that
could, at least, be the subject of experiment. The men
of Tennessee, in less than twenty-five days, perfected- a
fabric, which, in its essential forms, was to last for
ever. They came together, full of faith and reverence,
of love to humanity, of confidence in truth. In the
simplicity of wisdom they constructed their system,
acting under higher influences than they were con-
scious of;

29

460 OCCASIONAL ABDBE88ES.

They wrought in sad sincerity,
Themselves from God they could not free ;
They builded better than they knew ;
The conscious stones to beauty grew.

In the instrument which they adopted, they em-
bodied their faith in Grod, and in the immortal nature
of man. They gave the right of suffirage to every
fiwman; they vindicated the sanctity of reason, by
securing freedom of speech and of the press; they
reverenced the voice of God, as it speaks in the soul,
by asserting the indefeasible right of man to worship
the Infinite according to his conscience; they estab-
lished the freedom and equality of elections ; and they
demanded from every future legislator a solemn oath,
"never to consent to any act or thing whatever that
shall have even a tendency to lessen the rights of the
people/'

These majestic lawgivers^ wiser than the Solons,
and Lycurguses, and Numas of the Old World, — ^these
prophetic founders of a State, who embodied in their
constitution the sublimest truths of himianity, acted
without reference to human praises. They took no
pains to vaunt their deeds ; and when their work was
done, knew not that they had finished one of the sub-
Umest acts ever performed among men. They left no
record, as to whose agency was conspicuous, whose
eloquence swayed, whose generous will predominated ;

COMMEMORATION OF ANDREW JACKSON. 451

nor should we know, but for tradition, confirmed by
what followed among themselves.

The men of Tennessee were now a people, and
they were to send forth a man to stand for them in the
Congress of the United States — ^that avenue to glory —
that home of eloquence — ^the citadel of popular power ;
and, with one consent, they united in selecting the
foremost man among their lawgivers — Andrew
Jackson.

The love of his constituents followed him to the
American Congress ; and he had served but a single
term when the State of Tennessee made him one of
its representatives in the American Senate, of which
Jefferson was at the time the presiding officer.

Thus, when he was scarcely more than thirty, he
had guided the settlement of the wilderness ; swayed
the ddiberations of a people in establishing their fun-
damental laws ; acted as their representative, and again
as the representative of his organized conmionwealth,
discipUned to a knowledge of the power of the people
and the power of the States ; the associate of repub-
Ucan statesmen, the friend and companion of Jefferson.

The men who framed the Constitution of the United
States, many of them did not know the innate life and
self-preserving energy of their work. They feared that
freedom could not endure, and they planned a strong
government for its protection. During his short career
m Congress, Jackson showed his quiet, deeply-seated,

452 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

innate, intuitive faith in human freedom, and in the in-
stitutions which rested on that faith. He was ever, by
his votes and opinions, found among those who had con-
fidence in humanity ; and in the great division of minds,
this child of the woodlands, this representative of forest
life in the West, appeared modestly and finnly on the
side of Uberty. It did not occur to him to. doubt the
right of man to the free development of his powers ; it
did not occur to him to place a guardianship over the
people ; it did not occur to him to seek to give dura-
bihty to popular institutions, by conceding to govern-
ment a strength independent of popular vnll.

From the first, he was attached to the fundamental
doctrines of popular power, and of the poUcy that
favors it; and though his reverence for Washington
surpassed his reverence for any human being, he voted
against the address from the House of Representatives
to Washington on his retirement, because its language
appeared to sanction the financial policy which he be-
Ueved hostile to the true principles of a repubUc.

During his period of service in the Senate, Jackson
was elected major general by the brigadiers and field
officers of the miUtia of Tennessee. Resigning his
place in the Senate, he was made judge of the supreme
court in law and equity ; such was the confidence in
his clearness of judgment, his vigor of will, and his in-
tegrity of purpose, to deal justly among the turbulent
who crowded into the new settlements of Tennessee.

COMMEMORATION OF ANDREW JACKSON. 453

Thus, in the short period of nine years, Andrew
Jackson was signalized by as many evidences of public
esteem as could fall to the lot of man. The pioneer
of the wilderness, the defender of its stations, he was
the lawgiver of a new people, their sole representative
in Congress, the representative of the State in the
Senate, the highest in military command, the highest
in judicial office. He seemed to be recognised as the
first in love of liberty, in the science of legislation, in
sagacity, and integrity.

Delighting in private life, he would have resigned his
place on the bench ; but the whole country demanded
his continued service. " Nature," they cried, " never
designed that your powers of thought and indepen-
dence of mind should be lost in retirement." But
after a few years, relieving himself from the cares of
the court, he gave himself to the activity and the inde-
pendent life of a husbandman. He carried into retire-
ment the fame of natural intelligence, and was cher-
ished as "a prompt, frank, and ardent soul." His
vigor of character gave him the lead among aU with
whom he associated, and his name was familiarly spo-
ken round every hearth-stone in Tennessee. Men
loved to discuss his qualities. All discerned his power,
and when the vehemence and impetuosity of his nature
were observed upon, there were not wanting those who
saw, beneath the blazing fires of his genius, the soUdity
of his judgment.

454 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

His hospitable roof sheltered the emigrant and the
pioneer; and, as they made their way to their new
homes, they filled the mountain sides and the valleys
with his praise.

Connecting himself, for a season, with a man ci
business, Jackson soon discerned the misconduct of his
associate. It marked his character, that he insisted,
himself, on pa3ring every obligation that had been con-
tracted; and, rather than endure the vassalage of
debt, he instantly parted with the rich domain which
his early enterprise had acquired — ^with his own man-
sion— ^with the fields which he himself had first tamed
to the ploughshare — ^with the forest whose trees were
as familiar to him as his friends — and chose rather to
dwell, for a time, in a rude log cabin, in the pride
of independence and integrity.

On ail great occasions, his influence was deferred
to. When Jefierson had acquired for the country
the whole of Louisiana, and there seemed some
hesitancy, on the part of Spain, to acknowledge our
possession, the services of Jackson were solicited by
the national administration, and would have been called
into full exercise, but for the peaceful termination of
the incidents that occasioned the summons.

In the long series of aggressions on the freedom of
the seas, and the rights of the American flag, Jackson,
though in his inland home the roar of the breakers
was never heard and the mariner never was seen, re-

COMMEMORATION OF ANDREW JACKSON. 465

sented the injuries wantonly inflicted on our commerce
and on our sailors, and adhered to the new maritime
code of republicanism.

When the continuance of wrong compelled the
nation to resort to arms, Jackson, led by the instinctive
knowledge of his own greatness, yet with true modesty
of nature, confessed his willingness to be employed on
the Canada frontier ; and aspired to the command to
which Winchester was appointed. We may ask, what
would have been the result, if the conduct of the
north-western army had, at the opening of the war,
been intrusted to a man who, in action, was ever so
fortunate, that he seemed to have made destiny capitu-
late to his vehement will ?

The path of duty led him in another direction. On
the declaration of war, twenty-five hundred volunteers
had risen at his word to follow his standard ; but, by
countermanding orders from the seat of government,
the movement was without efiect.

A new and greater danger hung over the West.
The Indian tribes were to make one last efibrt to
restore it to its sohtude, and recover it for savage life.
The brave, relentless Shawnees — ^who, from time im-
memorial, had strolled from the waters of the Ohio to
the rivers of Alabama — ^were animated by Tecumseh
and his brother the Prophet, speaking to them as
with the voice of the Great Spirit, and urging the
Creek nation to desperate massacres. Their ruthless

456 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

craelty spared neither sex nor age; the infant and
its mother, the planter and his family, who had fled
for refuge to the fortress, the garrison that capitu-
lated,— all were slain, and not a vestige of defence was
left in the country. The cry of the West demanded
Jackson for its defender ; and though his arm was then
fractured by a ball, and hung in a sling, he placed him-
self at the head of the volunteers of Tennessee, and
resolved to terminate for ever the hereditary struggle.

Who can tell the horrors of that campaign ? Who
can paint rightly the obstacles which Jackson over-
came— ^mountains, the scarcity of untenanted forests,
winter, the failure of suppUes from the settlements, the
insubordination of troops, mutiny, menaces of deser-
tion? Who can measure the wonderftd power over
men, by which his personal prowess and attractive
energy drew them in midwinter from their homes,
across mountains and morasses, and through trackless
deserts ? Who can describe the personal heroism of
Jackson, never sparing himself, beyond any of his men
encoimtering toil and fatigue, sharing every labor of the
camp and of the march, foremost in every danger ;
giving up his horse to the invalid soldier, while he
himself waded through the swamps on foot? None
equalled him in power of endurance ; and the private
soldiers, as they found him passing them on the march,
exclaimed, " He is as tough as the hickorj." "Yes,"
they cried to one another, "there goes Old Hickor}' ! "

COMMEMORATION OP ANDREW JACKSON. 457

Then followed the memorable events of the double
battles of Emuckfaw, and the glorious victory of Toho-
peka, where the anger of the general against the falter-
ing was more appaUing than the war-whoop and the
rifle of the savage ; the fiercely contested field of
Enotochopco, where the general, as he attempted to
draw his sword to cut down a flying colonel who
was leading a regiment from the field, broke again the
ann which was but newly knit together; and, quietly
replacing it in the sling, with his commanding voice
arrested the flight of the troops, and himself led them
back to victory.

In six short months of vehement action, the most
terrible Indian war in our annals was brought to a
close; the prophets were silenced; the consecrated
regibn of the Creek nation reduced. Through scenes
of blood, the avenging hero sought only the path to
peace. Thus Alabama, a part of Mississippi, a part
of his own Tennessee, and the highway to the Floridas,
were his gifts to the Union. These were his trophies.

Genius as extraordinary as military events can call
forth, was summoned into action in this rapid, effi-
cient, and most fortunately conducted war. The hero
descended the water-courses of Alabama to the neigh-
borhood of Pensacola, and longed to plant the eagle of,
his country on its battlements.

Time would fail, and words be wanting, were I to
dwell on the magical influencee of his appearance in

458 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

New Orleans. His presence dissipated gloom and
dispelled alarm; at once he changed the aspect of
despair into a confidence of security and a hope of
acquiring glory. Eveiy man knows the tale of the
sudden, and yet deUberate daring which led him, on
the night of the twenty-third of December, to precipi-
tate his Uttle army on his foes, in the thick darkness,
before they grew familiar with their encampment, scat-
tering dismay through veteran regiments of England,
defeating them, and arresting their progress by a
fiff inferior force.

Who shall recount the counsels of prudence, the
kindling words of eloquence, that gushed from his Ups
to cheer his soldiers, his skirmishes and battles, till
that eventful morning when the day at Bunker Hill
had its fulfilment in the glorious battle of New Or-
leans, and American independence stood before the
world in the majesty of triumphant power !

These were great victories for the nation; over
himself he won a greater. Had not Jackson been
renowned for the impetuosity of his passions, for his
defiance of others' authority, and the unbending vigor
of his self-will? Behold the savior of Louisiana, all
garlanded with victory, viewing around him the city he
had preserved, the maidens and children whom his
heroism had protected, yet standing in the presence of
a petty judge, who gratifies his wounded vanity by an
abuse of his judicial power. Every breast in the

COMMEMORATION OF ANDREW JACKSON. 459

crowded audience heaves with indignation. He, the
passionate, the impetuous, — ^he whose power was to
be humbled, whose honor questioned, whose laurels
tarnished, alone stood sublimely serene ; and when the
craven judge trembled, and faltered, and dared not
proceed, himself, the arraigned one, bade him take
courage, and stood by the law even when the law was
made the instrument of insult and wrong on himself
at the moment of his most perfect clahn to the highest
civic honors.

. His country, when it grew to hold many more mil-
Uons, the generation that then was coming in, has risen
up to do homage to the magnanimity of that hour.
Woman, whose feeling is always right, did honor from
the jfirst to the purity of his heroism. The people of
Louisiana, to the latest age; will cherish his nam6 as
their greatest benefactor.

The culture of Jackson's mind had been much pro-
moted by his services and associations in the war.
His discipline of himself as the chief in command, his
intimate relations with men Uke Livingston, the won-
derful deeds in which he bore a part, all matured his
judgment and mellowed his character.

Peace came with its delights ; once more the coun-
try rushed forward in the development of its powers ;
once more the arts of industry healed the wounds
that war had inflicted ; and, frt)m commerce and
agriculture and manufactures, wealth gushed abun-

460 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

dantly under the free activitT of muestrained enter-
prise. And Jackson returned to his own fields and his
own pursuits, to cherish his plantati(Hi, to care for his
senants, to enjoy the affection of the most kind and
devoted wife, whom he respected with the gentlest
deference, and loved with a spotless purity.

There he stood, like one of the mightiest forest
trees of his own West, vigorous and colossal, sending
its summit to the skies, and growing on its native soil
in wild and inimitable magnificence, careless of behold-
ers. From every part of the country he received ap-
peals to his political ambition, and the severe modesty
of his well-balanced mind turned them all aside. He
was happy in his farm, happy in seclusion, happy in
his family, happy within himself.

But the passions of the southern Indians were not
allayed by the peace with Great Britain ; and foreign
emissaries were still among them, to inflame and direct
their malignity. Jackson was called forth by his
country to restrain the cruelty of the treacherous and
unsparing Seminoles. It was in the train of the events
of this war that he placed the American eagle on St.
Mark's and above the ancient towers of St. Augustine.
His deeds in that war, of themselves, form a monument
to human power, to the celerity of his genius, to the
creative fertility of his resources, to his intuitive
sagacity. As Spain, in his judgment, had committed
aggressions, he would have emancipated her islands ; of

COMMEMORATION OF ANDREW JACKSON. 461

the Havana, he caused the reconnoissance to be
made ; and, with an army of five thousand men, he
stood ready to guaranty her redemption from colonial
thraldom.

But when peace was restored, and his office was
accomplished, his physical strength sunk under the
pestilential influence of the climate, and, fast yielding
to disease, he was borne in a Utter across the swamps
of Florida towards his home. It was Jackson's char-
acter that he never solicited aid from any one ; but he
never forgot those who rendered him service in the
hour of need. At a time when all around him believed
him near his end, his wife hastened to his side ; and,
by her tenderness and nursing care, her patient as-
siduity, and the soothing influence of devoted love,
witliheld him from the grave.

He would have remained quietly at his home,
but that he was privately informed, his conduct
was to be attainted by some intended congres-
sional proceedings ; he came, therefore, into the pres-
ence of the people's representatives at Washington,
only to vindicate his name ; and, when that was
achieved, he once more returned to his seclusion
among the groves of the Hermitage.

It was not his own ambition which brought him
again to the public view. The affection of Tennessee
compelled him to resume a seat on the floor of the
American Senate, and, after a long series of the in-

462 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

tensest political strife, Andrew Jackson was elected
President of the United States.

Far from advancing his own pretensions, he always
kept them back, and had for years repressed the
solicitations of his friends to become a candidate.
He felt sensibly that he was devmd of scientific
colture, and Uttle fiamiliar with letters ; and he never
obtmded his opinions, or preferred claims to place.
But, whenever his advice was demanded, he was
always ready to pronounce it ; and whenever his
country invoked his services, he did not shrink even
from the station which had been filled by the most
cultivated men our nation had produced.

Behold, then, the unlettered man of the West, the
nursling of the wilds, the farmer of the Hermitage,
Uttle versed in books, imconnected by science with the
traditions of the past, raised by the will of the people to
the highest pinnacle of honor, to the central post in the
civilization of repubUcan fi-eedom, to the office where
all the powers of the earth would watch his actions —
where his words would be repeated through the world,
and his spirit be the moving star to guide the nations.
What policy will he pursue ? What wisdom will he
bring with him from the forest ? What rules of duty -
will he evolve from the oracles of his own mind ?

The man of the West came as the inspired prophet
of the West ; he came as one fi^e from the bonds of
hereditary or established custom ; he came with no su-

COMMEMORATION OP ANDREW JACKSON. 463

perior but conscience, no oracle but his native judg-
ment ; and, trae to his origin and his education, true
to the conditions and circumstances of his advance-
ment, he valued right more than usage ; he reverted
fix)m the pressure of established interests to the energy
of first principles.

We tread on ashes, where the fire is not yet extin-
guished ; yet not to dwell on his career as President,
were to leave out of view the grandest illustrations of
his magnanimity.

The legislation of the United States had followed
the precedents of the legislation of European mon-
archies ; it was the office of Jackson to lift the coun-
try out of the European forms of legislation, and to
open to it a career resting on American sentiment and
American freedom. He would have freedom every
where — ^freedom under the restraints of right ; freedom
of industry, of commerce, of mind, of universal action ;
freedom, unshackled by restrictive privileges, unre-'
strained by the thraldom of monopoUes.

The unity of his mind and his consistency were with-
out a paraflel. Guided by natural dialectics, he devel-
oped the poUtical doctrines that suited every emergency,
with a precision and a harmony that no theorist could
hope to equal. On every subject in poUtics, he was
thoroughly and profoundly and immovably radical;
and would sit for hours, and in a continued flow of
remark make the application of his principles to every

464 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

question that could arise in legislation, or in the inter-
pretation of the constitution.

His eiqpression of himself was so clear, that his in-
fluence pervaded not our land only, but all America
and all mankind. They sav that, in the physical
world, the magnetic fluid is so diffused, that its vibnt-
tbns are discernible simultaneously in every part of the
^obe. So it is with the element of freedom. And as
Jackson developed its doctrines from their source in the
mind of humanity, the popular sympathy was moved
and agitated throughout the world, till his name grew
every where to be the sjrmbol of popular power.

Himself the witness of the ruthlessness of savage
life, he planned the removal of the Indian tribes
beyond the limits of the organized States ; and it is
the result of his determined policy that the region east
of the Mississippi has been transferred to the exclusive
possession of cultivated man.

A pupil of the wilderness, his heart was with the
pioneers of American life towards the setting sun.
He longed to secure to the emigrant, not pre-emp-
tion rights only, but more than pre-emption rights.
He longed to invite labor to take possession of the un-
occupied fields without money and without price ; with
no obligation except the perpetual devotion of itself by
allegiance to its countr}'. Under the beneficent influ-
ence of his opinions, the sons of misfortune, the chil-
dren of adventure, find their way to the uncultivated

COMMEMORATION OF ANDREW JACKSON. 465

West. There in some wilderness glade, or in the thick
forest of the fertile plain, or where the prairies most
sparkle with flowers, they, like the wild bee which sets
them the example of industry, may choose their home,
mark the extent of their possessions by driving stakes
or blazing trees, shelter their log-cabin with boughs
and turf, and teach the virgin soil to yield itself to the
ploughshare. Theirs shall be the soil ; theirs the beau-
tiful farms which they teach to be productive. Come,
children of sorrow! you on whom the Old World
frowns; crowd fearlessly to the forests; plant your
homes in confidence, for the country watches over you ;
your children grow around you as hostages, and the
wilderness, at your bidding, siurenders its grandeur of
useless luxuriance to the beauty and loveliness of
culture. Yet beautiful and lovely as is this scene, it
still by fiEu: falls short of the ideal which lived in the
affections of Jackson.

It would be a sin against the occasion, were I to
omit to commemorate the deep devotedness of Jackson
to the cause and to the rights of the laboring classes.
It was for their welfare that he defied all the
storms of poUtical hostility. He desired to ensure to
them the fruits of their own industry ; and he unceas-
ingly opposed every system which tended to lessen
their reward, or which exposed them to be defrauded
of their dues. They may bend over his grave with
affectionate sorrow; for never, in the tide of time,
30

466 OCCASIONAL ADDBS88E8.

did a statesman exist more heartily resolved to protect
them in their rights, and to advance their happiness.
For their benefit, he opposed partial legislation; for
their benefit, he resisted all artificial methods of con-
trolling labor, and subjecting it to capital. It was
for their benefit that he loved fireedom in all its
forms — freedom of the individual in personal inde-
pendence, freedom of the States as separate sovereign-
ties. He never would listen to counsels which tended
to the concentration of power, the subjecting general
labor to a central will. The true American system
presupposes the diffusion of freedom— organized life
in all the parts of the American body poUtic, as there
is organized life in every part of the human system.
His vindication of the just principles of the constitution
derived its sublimity from his deep conviction, that this
strict construction is required by the lasting welfare of
the great laboring classes of the United States.

To this end, Jackson revived the tribunicial power
of the veto, and exerted it agamst the decisive action
of both branches of Congress, against the votes, the
wishes, the entreaties of personal and poUtical friends.
" Show me," was his reply to them, " show me an
express clause in the constitution, authorizing Congress
to take the business of State legislatures out of their
hands." " You will ruin us all," cried a firm partisan
friend ; " you will ruin your party and your own pros-
pects." " Providence," answered Jackson, " will take
care of me ; " and he persevered.

COMMEMORATION OP ANDREW JACKSON. 467

In proceeding to discharge the" debt of the United
States — a measure thoroughly American — Jackson fol-
lowed the example of his predecessors ; but he followed
it with the fiill consciousness that he was rescuing the
country fix)m the artificial system of finance which had
prevailed throughout the world; and with him it
formed a part of a system by which American legis-
lation was to separate itself more and more effectually
firom European precedents, and develope itself more and
more, according to the vital principles of our political
existence.

The discharge of the debt brought with it a great
reduction of the pubUc burdens, and brought, of
necessity, into view, the question, how far America
should follow, of choice, the old restrictive poKcy of
high duties, under which Europe had oppressed Ameri-
ca ; or how far she should rely on her own fireedom,
enterprise, and power, defying the competition, seeking
the markets, and receiving the products of the world.

The mind of Jackson on this subject reasoned
clearly, and without passion. In the abuses of the
system of revenue by excessive imposts, he saw evils
which the public mind would remedy ; and, inclining
with the whole might of his energetic nature to the
side of revenue duties, he made his earnest but tranquil
appeal to the judgment of the people.

The portions of country that suffered most severely
from a course of legislation, which, in its extreme char*

468 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

acter as it then existed, is now nniversally acknow-
ledged to have been unequal and unjust, were less
tranquil ; and rallying on those doctrines of freedom,
which make our government a limited one, they saw
in the oppressive acts an assumption of power which
of itself was nugatory, because it was exercised, as
they held, without authority from the people.

The contest that ensued was the most momentous
in our annals. The greatest minds of America en-
gaged in the discussion. Eloquence never achieved
sublimer triumphs in the American Senate than on
those occasions. The country became deeply divided ;
and the antagonist elements were arrayed agamst each
other under forms of clashing authority menacing civil
war ; the freedom of the several States was invoked
against the power of the United States ; and under the
organization of a State in convention, the reserved
rights of the people were summoned to display their
energy, and balance the authority and neutralize the
legislation of the central government. The States
were agitated with prolonged excitement ; the friends
of Uberty throughout the world looked on with divided
sympathies, praying that the American Union might
be perpetual, and also that the commerce of the world
might be free.

Fortunately for the country, and fortunately for
mankind, Andrew Jackson was at the helm of state,
the representative of the principles that were to allay

"^

COMMEMORATION OF ANDREW JACKSON. 469

the storm, and to restore the hopes of peace and free-
dom. By nature, by impulse, by education, by con-
viction, a friend to personal freedom — ^by education,
poUtical sympathies, and the fixed habit of his mind, a
friend to the rights of the States— ^unwilling that the
liberty of the States should be trampled underfoot —
unwilling that the government should lose its vigor or
be impaired, he rallied for the constitution ; and in its
name he published to the world, " The Union : it
MUST BE PRESERVED." Thc words wcrc a spell to
hush evil passion, and to remove oppression. Under
his effective guidance, the favored interests, which had
struggled to perpetuate unjust legislation, jdelded to
the voice of moderation and reform ; and every mind
that had for a moment contemplated a rupture of the
States, discarded it for ever. The whole influence of
the past was invoked in favor of the federal system ;
from the council chambers of the fathers, who moulded
our institutions — ^from the hall where American inde-
pendence was declared, the clear,doud cry was uttered —
"the Union: it must be preserved." From every
battle field of the revolution — ^from Lexington and Bun-
ker Hill — ^from Saratoga and Yorktown — ^from the fields
of Eutaw and King's Mountain — ^from the cane-brakes
that sheltered the men of Marion — the repeated, long-
prolonged echoes came up — " the Union : it must be pre-
served." From every valley in our land — ^from every
cabin on the pleasant mountain sides — ^from the ships at

470 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

OUT wharves — from the tents of the hiinter in our west-
ernmost prairies — ^from the Uving minds of the Uving
miUions of American freemen — ^from the thickly coming
glories of futurity — ^the shout went up, like the sound
of many waters, " the Union : it must be preserved/'
The friends of the protective system, and they who
had denoimced the protective system — ^the statesmen
of the North, that had wounded the constitution in
their love of increased power at the centre — the states-
men of the South, whose ingenious acuteness had carried
to its extreme the theory of State rights — all conspired
together ; all breathed prayers for the perpetuity of the
Union. Under the prudent firmness of Jackson, by
the mixture of justice and general regard for all
interests, the greatest danger to our coimtry was turned
aside, and mankind was encouraged to beUeve that our
Union, like our freedom, is imperishable.

The moral of the great events of those days is this :
that the people can discern right, and will make their
way to a knowledge of right ; that the whole human
mind, and therefore with it the mind of the nation,
has a continuous, ever improving existence ; that the
appeal from the unjust legislation of to-day must be
made quietly, earnestly, perseveringly, to the more en-
lightened collective reason of to-morrow ; that submis-
sion is due to the popular will, in the confi4ence that
the people, when in error, will amend their doings ;
that in a popular government injustice is neither to be

COMMEMORATION OF ANDREW JACKSON. 471

established by force, nor to be resisted by force ; in a
word, that the Union, which was constituted by con-
sent, must be preserved by love.

It rarely falls to the happy lot of a statesman to
receive such unanimous applause from the heart of a
nation. Duty to the dead demands that, on this occa-
sion, the course of measures should not pass unnoticed,
in the progress of which, his vigor of character most
clearly appeared, and his conflict with opposing parties
was most violent and protracted.

From his home in Tennessee, Jackson came to the
presidency, resolved to lift American legislation out of
the forms of EngUsh legislation, and to place our laws
on the currency in harmony with the principles of our
repubhc. He came to the presidency of the United
States determined to deUver the government from the
Bank of the United States, and to restore the regu-
lation of exchanges to the rightfrd depository of that
power — ^the commerce of the country. He had de-
signed to declare his views on this subject in his
inaugural address, but was persuaded to relinquish
that purpose, on the groimd that it belonged rather to
a legislative message. When the period for addressing
Congress drew near, it was still urged, that to attack
the bank would forfeit his popularity and secure his
future defeat. "It is not," he answered, "it is not
for myself that I care.'* It was urged that haste was
unnecessary, as the bank had still six unexpended

472 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

years of chartered existence. " I may die," he replied,
" before another Congress comes together, and I could
not rest quietly in my grave, if I failed to do what I
hold so essential to the Uberty of my country." And
his first annual message announced to the people
that the bank was neither constitutional nor expedient.
In this he was in advance of the friends about him, in
advance of Congress, and in advance of his party.
This is no time for the analysis of measures or the
discussion of questions of poUtical economy; on the
present occasion, we have to contemplate the character
of the man.

Never, from the first moment of his administration
to the last, was there a calm in the strife of parties on
the subject of the currency ; and never, during the
whole period, did he recede or falter. Remaining
always in advance of Ins party, always having near
him friends who cowered before the hardihood of
his courage, he himself was unmoved, from the first
suggestion of the unconstitutionality of the bank,
to the moment when first of all, reasoning from the
certain tendency of its policy, he with singular sagacity
predicted to unbelieving friends the coming insolvency
of the institution.

The storm throughout the country rose with unex-
ampled vehemence; his opponents were not satisfied
with addressing the public, or Congress, or his cabinet;
they threw their whole force personally on him. From

COMMEMORATION OF ANDREW JACKSON. 473

all parts men pressed around him, urging him, entreat-
ing him to bend. Congress was flexible ; many of his
personal firiends faltered ; the impetuous swelling wave
rolled on, without one sufficient obstacle, till it reached
his presence ; but, as it dashed in its highest fury at
his feet, it broke before his firmness. The command-
ing majesty of his will appalled his opponents and
revived his friends. He, himself, had a proud con-
sciousness that his will was indomitable. Standing
over the Rip Raps, and looking out upon the
ocean, "Providence,'* said he to a friend, "Provi-
dence may change my determination ; but man no
more can do it than he can remove these Rip Raps,
which have resisted the rolling of the ocean from the
beginning of time." And though a panic was spread-
ing through the land, and the whole credit system as it
then existed was crumbling to pieces and crashing
around him, he stood erect, like a massive column,
which the heaps of falling ruins could not break, nor
bend, nor sway from its fixed foundation.

In the relations of this country to the world, Jack-
son demanded for America equaUty. The time was
come for her to take her place over against the most
ancient and most powerful states of the Old World,
and to gain the recognition of her pretensions. He
revived the unadjusted claims for injuries to our com-
merce, committed in the wantonness of European hos-
tilities; and he taught the American merchant and

474 OCCASIOSAl ADDBisas.

tbe Kmpfinai sslor to lepoie aBilWliiiglj under the
Muctiiy of the Ameiicm flag. Nor would be oqb-
tent that the pavmeiit of mdemmties whi^ were
due, should be withhdd or dekjred. Etch agamsk
Fiance, the TeCeian of the West enfbroed tbe just
demand of Ameiica, with a booic ngar mUA
prodnoed an abiding nnpresBion on the woiUL He
did this in the love of peace. ^Yon have set joor
name to the most inqportant docoment of your pnbbc
life/' said one of his cabinet to him, as be signed the
ammal message that treated of the unpaid indemnitj.
''This paper may produce a vrar." — ^"'Tbone will be no
war/' answered Jackscm, decisiv^ ; and nsoDg on his
feet, as was Ins custom wiien be spoke vramily, be ex-
pressed with sdemnity lus hatred of war, beaiing
witness to its horrors, and protesting against its
crimes. He loved peace; and to secure permanent
tranquillity, he made the rule for lus success<»r8, as
well as for himself, in the intercourse of America vrith
foreign powers, "to demand nothing but what is right,
and to submit to nothing that is wrong."

People of the District of Columbia: I should feil
of a duty on this occasion, if I did not give utterance
to your sentiment of gratitude which followed General
Jackson into retirement. This beautiful city, sur-
rounded by heights the most attractive, watered by a
river so magnificent, the home of the gentle and the cul-
tivated, not less than the seat of political power — this

COMMEMORATION OF ANDREW JACKSON. 475

city, whose site Washington had selected, was dear to
his affections ; and if he won your grateful attachment
by adorning it with monuments of useful architecture,
by establishing its credit, and relieving it of its burdens,
he regretted only that he had not the opportunity to
have connected himself still more intimately with your
prosperity. When he took leave of the District, the
population of this city, and the masses from its vi-
cmity, followed \ns carriage in crowds. All in silence
stood near him, to wish him adieu ; and as the ears
started, and lifting his hat in token of fiEU^well, he
displayed his gray hairs, you stood aroimd with heads
uncovered, too fiill of emotion to speak, in solemn
silence gazing on him as he went on his way to be
seen of you no more.

Behold the warrior and statesman, his work well
done, retired to the Hermitage, to hold converse with
his forests, to cultivate his farm, to gather around him
hospitably lus friends ! Who was like him P He was
the load-star of the American people. His fervid
thoughts, frankly uttered, still spread the flame of
patriotism through the American breast ; his counsels
were still listened to with reverence ; and, almost alone
amongistatesmen, he in his retirement was in harmony
with every onward movement of hia time. His pre-
vailing influence assisted to sway a neighboring nation
to desire to share our institutions ; lus ear heard the
footsteps of the coming miUions that are to gladden

476 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

our western shores ; and his eye discerned in the dim
distance the whitening sails that are to enliven the
Pacific with the social sounds of our commerce.

Age had whitened his locks, and dimmed his eye,
and spread round him the infirmities and venerable
emblems of many years of toilsome service ; but his
heart beat warmly as in his youth, and his coiu^ge
was firm as it had ever been in the day of battle.
His affections were still for his friends and his coim-
try, his thoughts were abeady in a better world. He
who in active life had always had unity of perception
and wiD, in action had never faltered from doubt, and
in council had always reverted to first principles and
general laws, now gave himself to communing with
the Infinite. He was a beUever; from feeling, from
experience, from conviction. Not a shadow of skepti-
cism ever dimmed the lustre of his mind. Proud
philosopher! will you smile to know that Andrew
Jackson perused reverently his Psalter and Prayer-
book and Bible? Know that he had faith in the
eternity of truth, in the imperishable power of freedom,
in the destinies of humanity, in the virtues and ca-
pacity of the people, in his country's institutions, in
the being and overruling providence of a mercifcJ and
ever-living God. .

The last moment of his life on earth is at hand.
It is the Sabbath of the Lord; the brightness and
beauty of summer clothe the fields around him ; na-

COMMEMORATION OF ANDREW JACKSON. 477

ture is in her glory; but the sublimest spectacle on
that day, was the victory of his unblenching spirit over
death itself.

When he first felt the hand of death upon him,
" May my enemies," he cried, " find peace ; may the
Uberties of my country endure for ever."

When his exhausted system, under the excess of
pain, sunk, for a moment, from debility, ''Do not
weep," said he to his adopted daughter ; " my suffer-
ings are less than those of Christ upon the cross ; " for
he, too, as a disciple of the cross, could have devoted
himself, in sorrow, for mankind. Feeling his end
near, he would see all his family once morc^ and he
spoke to them, one by one, in words of tenderness and
affection. His two little grandchildren were absent at
Sunday-school. He asked for them; and as they
came, he prayed for them, and kissed them, and
blessed them. His servants were then summoned;
they gathered, some in his room, and some on the out-
side of the house, clinging to the windows, that they
might gaze and hear. And that dying man, thus
surrounded, in a gush of fervid eloquence, spoke with
inspiration of God, of the Redeemer, of salvation
through the atonement, of immortahty, of heaven.
For he ever thought that pure and undefiled religion
was the foimdation of private happiness, and the bul-
wark of republican institutions. "Dear children,"
such were his final words, "dear children, servants.

47§ occjLSiasAL

Old friendi, I tnel to meet joa al in kmRoi, boA
wliite nd VUk—J^ both wiiite nd UKk.** And
haling borne his twuiiiimi to jnnBtMtJakj, he bowed
his mi^itj head, and, withoitf a groan, the qink of the
gieatest man of his age cacaped to the boaom of
his God.

In life, his career had been Eke the bbae of the
son in the fieicenesB of its noonday ^forji his death
was lorefy as the sammer s erenii^ when the son goes
down in tranquil beaotj withoitf a dond. To the
majestic energy of an indondtaUe wiD, he joined a
heart ca|nble of the purest and most defoted kif^
rich in the tenderest affiactions. On the bloody battle
field of Topoheca, he saved an in&nt that dm^ to
the breast d its dying mother; in the stosmiest
season of his pfesidency, he paused at the imminoit
moment of decision, to coimsd a poor suf^diant
that had come up to him for rdiet Of the strifes
in which he was engaged in his earho* fife, not
one sprang from himsdf, but in every case he
became involved by standing forth as the diampi-
on of the weak, the poor, and the defencdess, to
shelter the gentle against oppression, to {m>tect the
emigrant against the avarice of the speculator. His
generous soul revolted at the barbarous practice of
duels, and bv no man in the land have so many been
prevented.

The sorrows of those that were near to him went

COMMEMORATION OF ANBEEW JACKSON. 479

deeply into his soul ; and at the anguish of the wife
whom he loved, the orphans whom he adopted, he
would melt into tears, and weep and sob like a child.
No man in private life so possessed the hearts of all
around him ; no pubUc man of this century ever re-
turned to private life with such an abiding mastery
over the affections of the people. No man with truer
instinct received American ideas; no man expressed
them so completely, or so boldly, or so sincerely. He
was as sincere a man as ever lived. He was wholly,
always, and altogether sincere and true.

Up to the last, he dared do any thing that it was
right to do. He united personal courage and moral
courage beyond any man of whom history keeps the
record. Before the nation, before the world, before
coming ages, he stands forth the representative, for his
generation, of the American mind. And the secret of
his greatness is this : by intuitive conception, he shared
and possessed all the creative ideas of his country
and his time; he expressed them with dauntless in-
trepidity; he enforced them with an immovable
will; he executed them with an electric power that
attracted and swayed the American people. The
nation, in lus time, had not one great thought, of
which he was not the boldest and clearest expositor.

Not danger, not an army in battle array, not
wounds, not wide-spread clamor, not age, not the
anguish of disease, could impair in the least degree

480 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

the vigor of his steadfast mind. The herbes of an*
tiquity would have contemplated with awe the mi-
matched hardihood of his character; and Napo-
leon, had he possessed his disinterested will, could
never have been vanquished. Jackson never was van-
quished. He was always fortunate. He conquered
the wilderness; he conquered the savage; he con-
quered the bravest veterans trained in the battle fields
of Europe ; he conquered every where in statesman-
ship ; and, when death came to get the mastery over
him, he turned that last enemy aside as tranquilly as
he had done the feeblest of his adversaries, and passed
from earth in the triumphant consciousness of im-
mortahty.

His body has its fit resting-place in the great
central valley of the Mississippi ; his spirit rests upon
our whole territory ; it hovers over the vales of Oregon,
and guards, in advance, the frontier of the Del Norte.
The fires of party strife are quenched at his grave.
His faults and frailties have perished. Whatever of
good he has done, Uves, and will live for ever.

ORATION,

DELIYEBED BEFOBE THE IHEW YOBK HISTORICAL BOOISTT, AT ITB
SEMI-OENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, NOYEMBEB SO, 1854

Brothers, Guests, and Friends op the New York
Historical Society :

We are assembled to celebrate the completion of a
half century, unequalled m its discoveries and its deeds.
Man is but the creature of yesterday, and fifty years
form a great length in the chain of his entire existence.
Inferior objects attract the inquirer who would go back
to remotest antiquity. The student of the chronology
of the earth may sit on the bluffs that overhang the
Mississippi, and muse on the myriads of years during
which the powers of nature have been depositing the
materials of its delta. He may then, by the aid of in-
duction, draw nearer to the beginnings of time, as he
meditates on the succession of ages that assisted to
construct the cliffs which raise their bastions over the
stream ; or to bury in compact layers the fern-like
forests that have stored the bosom of the great valley
with coal ; or to crystallize the ancient limestoiie into
31

482 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

marble ; or, at a still earlier epoch, to compress liquid
masses of the globe into seams of granite. But the
records of these transitions gain their chief interest
fipom their illustrating the revolutions through which
our planet was fashioned into a residence for man.
Science may roam into the abysses of the past, when
the earth moved silently in its course without ob-
servers ; just as it may reach those far-off regions of
nebular fields of light, whose distance no numbers that
the human fiEiculties may grasp can intelligibly express.
But as the sublime dwells not in space, so it dwells not
in duration. To search for it aright, we must contem-
plate the higher subject of man. It is but a few cen-
turies since he came into life ; and yet the study of his
nature and his destiny surpasses all else that can en-
gage his thoughts. At the close of a period which has
given new proof that unceasing movement is the law
of whatever is finite, we are called upon to observe the
general character of the changes in his state. Our
minds irresistibly turn to consider the laws, the cir-
cumstances and the prospects of his career ; we are led
to inquire whether his faculties and lus relations to the
imiverse compel him to a steady course of improve-
ment ; whether, in the aggregate, he has actually made
advances ; and what hopes we may cheiish respecting
his future. The occasion invites me to speak to you
of the NECESSITY, the eeality, and the promise of the
progress of mankind.

THE PROGRESS OP MANKIND. 488

Since every thing that is limited suffers perpetual
alteration, the condition of our race is one of growth
or of decay. It is the glory of man that he is conscious
of this law of his existence. He alone is gifted with
reason which looks upward as well as before and after,
and connects him with the world that is not discerned
by the senses. He alone has the faculty so to combine
thought with affection, that he can lift up his heart
and feel not for himself only, but for his brethren and
his kind. Every man is in substance equal to his'
fellow-man. His nature is changed neither by time
nor by country. He bears no marks of having risen
to his present degree of perfection by successive trans-
mutations from inferior forms ; but by the peculiarity
and superiority of his powers he shows himself to have
been created separate and distinct from all other classes
of animal life. He is neither degenerating into such
differences as could in the end no longer be classified
together, nor rising into a higher species. Each mem-
ber of the race is in will, affection, and intellect, con-
substantial with every other ; no passion, no noble or
degrading affection, no generous or selfish impulse, has
ever appeared, of which the germ does not exist in
every breast. No science has been reached, no thought
generated, no truth discovered, which has not from all
time existed potentially in every human mind. The
beUef in the progress of the race does not, therefore,
spring from the supposed possibility of his acquiring

484 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

new faculties, or coming into the possession of a new
nature.

Still less does truth vary. They speak falsely who
say that truth is the daughter of time ; it is the child
of eternity, and as old as the Divine mind. The per-
ception of it takes place in the order of time ; truth
itself knows nothing of the succession of ages. Neither
does moraUty need to perfect itself ; it is what it
always has been, and always will be. Its distinctions
are older than the sea or the dry land, than the earth or
the sun. The relation of good to evil is from the
beginning, and is unalterable.

The progress of man consists in this, that he
himself arrives at the perception of truth. The Divine
mind, which is its source, left it to be discovered,
appropriated and developed by finite creatures.

The life of an individual is but a breath ; it comes
forth hke a flower, and flees hke a shadow. Were no
other progress, therefore, possible than that of the in-
dividual, one period would have httle advantage over
another. But as every man partakes of the same
faculties and is consubstantial with all, it follows that
the race also has an existence of its own; and this
existence becomes richer, more varied, free and com-
plete, as time advances. Common sense implies by its
very name, that each individual is to contribute some
share toward the general intelligence. The many are
wiser than the few; the multitude than the philos-

THE PROGRESS OF MANKIND. 485

opher; the race than the individual; and each suc-
cessive generation than its predecessor.

The social condition of a centuiy, its faith and its
institutions, are always analogous to its acquisitions.
Neither philosophy, nor government, nor poUtical insti-
tutions, nor reUgious knowledge, can remain much
behind, or go much in advance, of the totality of con-
temporary inteUigence. The age furnishes to the
master-workman the materials with which he builds.
The outbreak of a revolution is the pulsation of the
time, healthful or spasmodic, according to its harmony
with the civilization from which it springs. Each new
philosophical system is the heliograph of an evanescent
condition of pubUc thought. The state in which we
are, is man's natural state at this moment; but it
neither should be nor can be his permanent state, for
his existence is flowing on in eternal motion, with
nothing fixed but the certainty of change. Now, by
the necessity of the case, the movement of the human
mind, taken collectively, is always toward something
better. There exists in each individual, alongside of
his own personality, the ideal man who represents the
race. Every one bears about within himself the con- •
sciousness that his course is a struggle ; and per-
petually feels the contrast between his own limited
nature and the better life of which he conceives. He
cannot state a proposition respecting a finite object,
but it includes also a reference to the infinite. He

486 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

cannot form a judgment, but it combines ideal truth
and partial error, and, as a consequence, sets in action
the antagonism between the true and the perfect on
the one side, and the false and the imperfect on the
other; and in this contest the true and the perfect
must prevail, for they have the advantage of being
perennial.

In pubUc life, by the side of the actual state of the
world, there exists the ideal state toward which it
should tend. This antagonism Ues at the root of aQ
poUtical combinations that ever have been or ever can
be formed. The elements on which they rest, whether
in monarchies, aristocracies, or in repubUcs, are but
three, not one of which can be wanting, or society falls
to ruin. The course of human destiny is ever a rope
of three strands. One party may found itself on things
as they are, and strive for their unaltered perpetuity ;
this is conservatism, always appearing wherever estab-
hshed interests exist, and never capable of unmingled
success, because finite things are ceaselessly in motion.
Another may be based on theoretic principles, and
struggle unrelentingly to conform society to the abso-
lute law of Truth and Justice; and this, though it
kindle the purest enthusiasm, can likewise never per-
fectly succeed, because the materials of which society is
composed partake of imperfection, and to extirpate all
that is imperfect would lead to the destruction of
society itself. And there may be a third, which

THE PROGRESS OF MANKIND. 487

seeks to reconcile the two, but which yet can never
thrive by itself, since it depends for its activity on
the clashing between the fact and the higher law.
Without all the three, the fates could not spin their
thread. As the motions of the solar world require the
centripetal force, which, by itself alone, would con-
solidate all things in one massive confusion ; the centri-
fugal force, which, if uncontrolled, would hurl the
planets on a tangent into infinite space; and lastly,
that reconciling adjustment, which preserves the two
powers in harmony ; so society always has within itself
the elements of conservatism, of absolute right, and
of reform.

The present state of the world is accepted by the
wise and benevolent as the necessary and natural result
of all its antecedents. But the statesman, whose heart
has been purified by the love of his kind, and whose
purpose solemnized by faith in the immutability of
justice, seeks to apply every principle which former
ages or his own may have mastered, and to make
every advancement that the culture of his time will
sustain. In a word, he will never omit an opportunity
to lift his country out of the inferior sphere of its
actual condition into the higher and better sphere
that is nearer to ideal perfection.

The merits of great men are to be tested by this
criterion. I speak of the judgment of the race, not
of the opinion of classes. The latter exalt, and even

f

I

488 OCCA8IOKAL ADDRESSES.

deify tlie advocates of their sdfislmess ; and often pro-
portion their pnuse to the daring, with which right and
truth have been made to succumb to their interests.
They lavish laureb all the more pnrfusely to hide the
baldness of their heroes. But reputation so imparted
is like eveiy thing else that rests only on the finite.
Vain is the applause of factions, or the suffirages of
those whose fortunes are benefited ; fame so attained,
must pass away like the interests of classes ; but the
name of those who have studied the well-being of their
fdlow-men, and in their generation have assisted to
raise the world from the actual toward the ideal, is
repeated in all the temples of humanity, and Uves not
only in its intelligence, but in its heart. These are
they, whose glory calumny cannot tarnish, nor pride
beat down. Connecting themselves with man's ad-
vancement, their example never loses its lustre ; and
the echo of their footsteps is heard throughout all time
with sympathy and love.

The necessity of the progress of the race follows,
therefore, from the fact, that the great Author of all
life has left truth in its immutability to be observed,
and has endowed man with the power of observation
and generalization. Precisely the same conclusions
will appear, if we contemplate society from the point
of view of the unity of the umiverse. The unchanging
character of law is the only basis on which continuous
action can rest. Without it man would be but as the

THE PROGRESS OF MANKIND. 489

traveller over endless morasses ; the builder on quick-
sands ; the mariner without compass or rudder, driven
successively whithersoever changing winds may blow.
The universe is the reflex and image of its Creator.
" The true work of art/' says Michael Angelo, " is but
a shadow of the Divine perfections." We may say in
a more general manner, that beauty itself is but the

SENSIBLE IMAGE OF THE INFINITE ; that all CrcatioU is

a manifestation of the Almighty ; not the result of
caprice, but the glorious display of his perfection ; and
as the universe thus produced, is always in the course
of change, so its regulating mind is a Uving Providence,
perpetually exerting itself anew. If his designs could
be ttiwarted, we should lose the great evidence of his
unity, as well as the anchor of our own hope.

Harmony is the characteristic of the intellectual
system of the universe ; and immutable laws of moral
existence must pervade all time and all space, all ages
and aQ worlds. The comparative anatomist has stu-
died, analysed and classified every species of vertebrate
existence that now walks, or flies, or creeps, or swims,
or reposes among the fossil remains of lost forms of
being ; and he discovers that they all, without excep-
tion, are analogous; so that the induction becomes
irresistible, that an archetype existed previous to the
creation of the first of the kind. Shall we then hesitate
to believe that the fixedness of law likewise pervades
the moral world? We cannot shut our eyes to the es-

490 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

tablished fact, that an ideal, or archetype, prescribed
the form of animal life ; and shall we not believe that
the type of all intellectual life likewise exists in the
Divine mind ?

I know that there is a pride which calls this fatal-
ism, and which rebels at the thought that the Father
of life should control what he has made. There are
those who must needs assert for their individual selves
the constant possession of that power which the great
English poet represents the bad angels to have lost
heaven for once attempting to usurp; they are not
content with being gifted with the faculty of discerning
the counsels of God, and becoming happy by conform-
ing to his decrees, but claim the privilege of acting
irrespective of those decrees. Unsatisfied with having
been created in his image, they assume the Uberty to
counteract his will. They do not perceive that cos-
mical order depends on the universaUty and absolute
;«! certainty of law ; that for that end, events in their

y course are not merely as fixed as Ararat and the

j^; Andes, but follow laws that are much older than

;i Andes or Ararat, that are as old as those which up-

heaved the mountains. The glory of God is not con-
V' tingent on man's good will, but all existence subserves

i. his purposes. The system of the universe is as a

,}' celestial poem, whose beauty is from all eternity, and

■^ must not be marred by human interpolations. Things

. : proceed as they were ordered, in their nice, and well-

THE PROGBESS OF MANKIND. 491

adjusted, and perfect harmony ; so that as the hand of
the skilful artist gathers music from the harp-strings,
history calls it forth from the well-tuned chords of time.
Not that this harmony can be heard during the tumult
of action. Philosophy comes after events, and gives
the reason of them, and describes the nature of their
results. The great mind of collective man may, one
day, so improve in self-consciousness as to interpret
the present and foretell the ftiture ; but as yet, the end
of what is now happening, though we ourselves partake
in it, seems to fall out by chance. All is nevertheless
one whole; individuals, families, peoples, the race,
march in accord with the Divine will ; and when any
part of the destiny of humanity is fulfilled, we see the
ways of Providence vindicated. The antagonisms of .
imperfect matter and the perfect idea, of Uberty and
necessary law, become reconciled. What seemed
irrational confusion, appears as the web woven by i
Ught, liberty and love. But this is not perceived till '
a great act in the drama of life is finished. The
prayer of the patriarch, when he desired to behold the
Divinity face to face, was denied; but he was able to
catch a gUmpse of Jehovah, after He had passed by ;
and so it fares with our search for Him in the wrest-
lings of the world. It is when the hour of conflict is
over, that history comes to a right imderstanding of
the strife, and is ready to exclaim : " Lo 1 God is
here, and we knew it not." At the foot of every page

492 0CCA8I05AL ADDKE8SE8.

in the annals of nations, may be written, " God rdgns."
Events, as they pass away, ''prodaim their Great
Original ; " and if yon will bat listen reverently, yon
may hear the receding centuries as they roll into the
dim distances of departed time, perpetually chanting
** T£ Deum Lavdamus," with all the choral vmces of
the countless congr^tions of the ages.

/ It is because God is visible in Histoiy that its

office is the noblest except that of the poet. The poet
is at once the interpreter and the favorite of Heaven.
He catches the first beam of light that flows firom its
uncreated source. He repeats the message of the
Infinite, without always being able to analyze it, and
often without knowing how he received it, or why he
was selected for its utterance. To him and to him
alone, history yields in dignity ; for she not only watches
the great encounters of life, but recalls what had van-
ished, and partaking of a bliss like that of creating,
restores it to animated being. The mineralogist takes
special delight in contemplating the process of crystal-
1} lization, as though he had caught nature at her work

f'' as a geometrician ; giving herself up to be gazed at

^j' without cohcealment such as she appears in the very

moment of exertion. But history, as she reclines in
the lap of eternity, sees the mind of humanity itself
engaged in formative eflForts, constructing sciences,
promulgating laws, organizing commonwealths, and
K. displaying its energies in the visible movement of its

■fv

THE PBOGRESS OF MANKIND. 493

intelligence. Of all pursuits that require analysis,
history, therefore, stands first. It is equaj to philoso-
phy ; for as certainly as the actual bodies forth the
ideal, so certainly does history contain philosophy. It
is grander than the natural sciences ; for its study is
man, the last work of creation, and the most perfect in
its relations with the Infinite.

In surveying the short period since man was
created, the proofs of progress are so abundant, that
we do not know with which of them to begin, or how
they should be classified. He is seen in the earliest
stages of society, bare of abstract truth, unskilled in the
methods of induction, and hardly emancipated firom
bondage to the material universe. How wonderful is
it, then, that a being whose first condition was so weak,
so humble, and so naked, and of whom no monument
older than forty centuries can be found, should have
accumulated such finiitful stores of intelligence, and
have attained such perfection of culture !

Look round upon this beautiful earth, this " tem-
perate zone of the solar system," and see how much man
has done for its subjection and adornment; making
the wildemess blossom with cities, and the seemingly
inhospitable sea cheerfully social with the richly
freighted fleets of world-wide commerce. Look also
at the condition of society, and consider by what
amenities barbarism has been softened and refined;
what guarantees of intelligence and Hberty have su-

494 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

perseded the lawlessness of brute force, and what
copious interchanges of thought and love have taken
the place of the sombre stolidity of the savage. The
wanderings of the nations are greater now than ever in
time past, and productive of happier results. Peaceful
emigration sets more myriads in motion than all the
hordes of armed barbarians, whether Gauls or Scyth-
ians, Goths or Huns, Scandinavians or Saracens, that
ever burst from the steppes of Asia and the Northern
nurseries of men. Our own city gives evidence that
the civilized world is becoming one federation ; for its
storehouses exhibit all products, from frirs that are
whitened by Arctic snows, to spices ripened under the
burning sun of the equator; and its people is the
representative of all the cultivated nations of Europe.

Every cUme is tasked also to enlarge the boundaries
of knowledge. Minerals that lie on the peaks of the
Himalayas, animals that hide in the densest jungles
of Africa, flowers that bloom in the solitudes of Su-
matra, or the trackless swamps along the Amazon, are
brought within the observation and domain of science.
With equal diligence the internal structure of plants
j^^ and animals has been subjected to examination. We

I' may gaze with astonishment at the advances which the

I * . past fifty years have made in the science of comparative

W physiology. By a most laborious and long-continued

r , use of the microscope, and by a vast number of careful

'ii and minute dissections, man has gained such insight

Pi-

k.

THE PROGRESS OF MANKIND. 495

into animal being, as not only to define its primary
groups, but almost to draw the ideal archetype that
preceded their creation. Not content with the study
of his own organization and the comparison of it with
the Fauna of every zone, he has been able to count
the pulsations of the heart of a caterpillar ; to watch
the flow of blood through the veins of the silkworm ;
to enumerate the miUions of Uving things that dwell in
a drop of water ; to take the census of creatures so
small, that parts of their members remain invisible to
the most powerful microscope ; to trace the lungs of
the insect which floats so gayly on the Kmber fans
of its wings, and revels in the full fruition of its tran-
scendent powers of motion.

The astronomer, too, has so perfected his skill, that
he has weighed in the balance some, even, of the stars,
and marked the course and the period of their revolu-
tions ; while, within the limits of our own system, he
has watched the perturbations of the wandering fires,
till he has achieved his crowning victory by discovering
a priori the existence and the place of an exterior
planet.

I have reminded you of the few hundreds of years
during which man has been a tenant of earth, and of
the great proportion that the last half century bears to
the whole of his existence. Let us consider this more
closely ; for I dare assert that, in some branches of
human activity, the period we commemorate has done

496 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

more for his instruction and improvement than all
which went before.

I do not here refer to our own country, because it
is altogether new, though its growth merits a passing
remark ; for within this time the area of our land has
been so extended that a similar increase, twice repeated,
would carry the stars and stripes to the polar ice
and to the isthmus ; while our population now exceeds
fivefold all who existed at the end of the two previous
centuries, and probably outnumbers all the generations
that sleep beneath the soil. I speak rather of results,
in which the old world takes its share; and I will
begin the enumeration by reference to an improvement
which we may deHght to consider our own. Your
thoughts go in advance of me to recall the fact, that
since our Society was organized, steam was first em-
ployed for both interior and oceanic navigation. We,

BROTHERS of tllC NeW YoRK HISTORICAL SoCIETY,

remember with pride that this great achievement in
behalf of the connection and the unity of the world, is
due to the genius of one of our members, and the en-
couragement of another ; to Robert Pulton and to
Robert R. Livingston.

The same superiority belongs to this age in refer-
ence to the construction of the means of internal com-
munication. What are all the artificial channels of
travel and of commerce that previously existed, com-
pared with the canals and railroads constructed in our

r.

THE PROGRESS OF MANKIND. 497

time P I shall not pause to estimate the number of
these newly made highways; their collective length;
their capacity for joumeyings and for trade : I leave to
others to contrast the occasional Oriental or African
caravcui with the daily freight-train on one of our iron
pathways; the post-chaise, the stage-coach, and the
diligence, with the incessant movement in the canal
boats and the flying cars of the railroad. Yet in your
presence, my brothers, remembering the eleven men
who, fifty years ago, met and organized our society, I
must for an instant direct attention to the system which
connects our own Hudson with the basins of the St.
Lawrence, of the Delaware, of the Susquehanna and
of the Mississippi. This magnificent work, one of the
noblest triumphs of civilized man, so friendly to peace
and industry, to national union and true glory, was
effected through the special instrumentality of one of
our original founders and most active members ; the
same De Witt Clinton, who in days when the city
of New York was proud of her enlightened magistracy,
was at the head of her mumcipal government, esteem-
ing it a part of his pubKc duty to care disinterestedly
for the welfare of science, and the fame of the great
men of the country.

The half century which now closes, is likewise

found to surpass all others, if we consider the extent

of its investigations into the history of the earth.

Geology, in that time, has assumed a severe scientific

32

408 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

form, doing the highest honor, not merely to the indi-
vidual men who have engaged in the pursuit, but to
human nature itself, by the persevering appHcation of
inductive reasoning, and the imperturbable serenity with
which seeming contradictions have been studied till
they have been found to confirm the general laws. Thus
the geologist has been able to ascertain, in some
degree, the chronology of our planet ; to demonstrate
the regularity of its structure where it seemed most
disturbed; and where nature herself was at fault, and
the trail of her footsteps broken, to restore the just
arrangement of strata that had been crushed into
confusion, or turned over in apparently inexpUcable
and incongruous folds. He has perused the rocky
tablets on which time-honored nature has set her in-
scriptions. He has opened the massive sepulchres of
departed forms of being, and pored over the copious
records preserved there in stone, till they have revealed
the majestic march of creative power, from the organism
of the zoophyte entombed in the lowest depths of
Siluria, through all the rising gradations of animal life,
up to its sublimest result in Grodlike man.

Again : It is only in our day that the sun has been
taught to do the work of an artist, and in obedience to
man's will, the great wave of Ught in its inconceivable
swiftness, is compelled to delineate, with inimitable
exiBgtness, any object that the eye of day looks upon.

Of the nature of electricity, more has been discov-

THE PROGRESS OF MANKIND. 499

ered in the last fifty years than in all past time, not
even excepting the age when our own Franklin called
it from the clouds. This aerial, invisible power, has
learnt to fly as man's faithful messenger, till the mystic
wires tremble with his passions and bear his errands
on the wings of lightning. He divines how this agency,
which holds the globe in its invisible embrace, guides
floating atoms to their places in the crystal ; or teaches
the mineral ores the lines in which they should move,
where to assemble together, and where to lie down and
take their rest. It whispers to the meteorologist the
secrets of the atmosphere and the skies. For the
chemist in his laboratory it perfects the instruments
of heat, dissolves the closest aflinities, and reunites the
sundered elements. It joins the artisan at his toil, and
busily employed at his side, this subtlest and swiftest
of existences tamely applies itself to its task, with
patient care reproduces the designs of the engraver or
the plastic art, and disposes the metal with a skilful
delicacy and exactness which the best workman cannot
rival. Nay more : it enters into the composition of
man himself, and is ever present as the inmost witness
of his thoughts and volitions. These are discoveries of
our time.

But enough of this contrast of the achievement of
one age with that of all preceding ones. It may seem
to be at variance with our theme, that as republican
institutions gain ground, woman appears less on the

500 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

theatre of events. She, whose presence in this briety
world is as a Uly among thorns, whose smile is pleasant
like the light of morning, and whose eye is the gate of
heaven ; she, whom nature so reveres, that the lovely
veil of her spirit is the best terrestrial emblem of
beauty, must cease to command armies or reign su-
preme over nations. Yet the progress of liberty,
while it has made her less conspicuous, has redeemed
her into the possession of the fiill dignity of her nature,
has made her not man's slave, but his companion, his
counsellor, and fellow-martyr ; and, for an occasional
ascendency in political afiFairs, has substituted the
imiform enjoyment of domestic equality. The avenue
to active public life seems closed against her, but
Avithout impairing her power over mind, or her fame.
The l}Te is as obedient to her touch, the muse as
M 1 coming to her call, as to that of man ; and truth in its

S..^ purity finds no more honored interpreter.

?j I When comparisons are drawn between longer pe-

f i ' r riods, the progress of the race appears from the change

{■■ in the condition of its classes. Time knows no holier

; : . mission tlian to assert the rights of labor, and it has, in

some measure, been mindful of the duty. Were Aris-
totle or Plato to come among us, they would find no
contrast more complete than between the workshops of
their Athens, and those of New York. In their day
the bondmen practised the mechanic arts ; nor was it
conceived that the world could do its work except by

THE PROGRESS OF MANKIND. 501

the use of slaves. But labor deserves and has the
right to be dignified and ennobled, and the auspicious
revolution in its condition has begun. Here the me-
chanic, at the shipyard, or the iron-works, or wherever
may be the task of his choice, owns no master on
earth ; and while, by the careful study and employment
of the forces of nature, he multiplies his powers, he
sweetens his daily toil by the consciousness of personal
independence, and the enjoyment of his acknowledged
claim to honor no less than to reward.

The fifty years which we celebrate, have taken
mighty strides toward the abolition of servitude. Prus-
sia, in the hour of its sufierings and its greatest calami-
ties, renovated its existence partly by the establishment
of schools, and partly by changing its serfs into a pro-
prietary peasantry. In Hungary, the attempt toward
preserving the nationality of the Magyars may have
failed; but the last vestiges of bondage have been
effaced, and the holders of the plough have become the
owners of themselves and of its soil.

If events do, as I believe, correspond to the Divine
idea ; if God is the fountain of all goodness, the in-
spirer of true afiection, the source of all mtelligence ;
there is nothing of so great moment to the race as the
conception of his existence ; and a true apprehension
of his relations to man must constitute the turning
point in the progress of the world. And it has been
so. A better knowledge of his nature is the dividing

Wi

602 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

line that separates ancient history from modem ; the
old time from the new. The thought of Divine unity
as an absolute cause was familiar to antiquity ; but the
undivided testimony of the records of all cultivated
nations shows that it took no hold of the popular
afiFections. Philosophers might conceive this Divine
unity as purest action, unmixed with matter ; as fate,
holding the universe in its invincible, unrelenting
grasp ; as, reason, gomg forth to the work of creation ;
as the primal source of the ideal archetypes, according
to which the world was fashioned ; as boundless power,
careless of boimdless existence ; as the infinite one,
slumbering unconsciously in the infinite all. Nothing
of this could take hold of the common mind, or make
" Peor and Baalim
Forsake their temples dim,"
j or throw down the altars of superstition.

For the regeneration of the world, it was requisite
that the Divine Being should enter into the abodes and
the hearts of men, and dwell there ; that a beUef in
him should be received, which should include all truth
respecting his essence ; that he should be known not
only as an abstract and absolute cause, but as the
infinite fountain of moral excellence and beauty ; not as
a distant Providence of boundless power and uncertain
or inactive will, but as God present in the flesh ; not
J ' as an absolute lawgiver, holding the material world

. i and all intelligent existence in the chains of necessity,

r- I
■J i

i

■| i

THE PROGRESS OF MANKIND. 508

but as a creative spirit, indwelling in man, his fellow-
worker and guide.

When the Divine Being was thus presented to the
soul, he touched at once man's aspirations, affections,
and inteUigence, and faith in him sunk into the inmost
heart of humanity. In vain did restless pride, as thaf
of Arius, seek to paganise Christianity and make it
the ally of imperial despotism ; to prefer a beUef resting
on authority and unsupported by an inward witness,
over the clear revelation of which the millions might
see and feel and know the divine glory ; to substitute
the conception, framed after the pattern of heathenism,
of an agent, superhuman yet finite, for faith in the
ever-continuing union of God with man ; to wrong the
majesty and holiness of the Spirit of God by represent-
ing it as a birth of time. Against these attempts to
subordinate the enfranchising virtue of truth to false
worship and to arbitrary power, reason asserted its
supremacy, and the party of superstition was driven
from the field. Then mooned Ashtaroth was ecUpsed,
and Osiris was seen no more in Memphian grove ; then
might have been heard the crash of the falling temples
of Polytheism ; and, instead of them, came that har-
mony which holds Heaven and Earth in happiest union.

Amid the deep sorrows of humanity during the sad
conflict which was protracted through centuries for the
overthrow of the past and the reconstruction of society,
the consciousness of an incarnate God carried peace

504 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

into the bosom of mankind. That fiaith emancipated
the slave, broke the bondage of woman, redeemed the
captive, elevated the low, lifted up the oppressed, con-
soled the wretched, inspired alike the heroes of thought
and the countless masses. The down-trodden nations
clung to it as to the certainty of their future emanci-
pation ; and it so filled the heart of the greatest poet
of the Middle Ages — ^perhaps the greatest poet of all
time^ — ^that he had no prayer so earnest as to behold in
the profound and clear substance of the eternal light,
that circling of reflected glory which showed the image
of man.

From the time that this truth of the triune God
was clearly announced, he was no longer dimly con-
ceived as a remote and shadowy causality, but appeared
as all that is good and beautiful and true ; as goodness
itself, incarnate and interceding, redeeming and in-
spiring ; the union of liberty, love, and Ught ; the in-
finite cause, the infinite mediator, the infinite in and
with the universe, as the paraclete and comforter. The
doctrine once conmaunicated to man, was not to be
eradicated. It spread as widely, as swiftly, and as
silently as Kght, and the idea of God with us dwelt
and dwells in every system of thought that can pretend
to vitality ; in every oppressed people, whose struggles
to be free have the promise of success ; in everv soul
that sighs for redemption.

THE PROGRESS OF MANKIND. 505

This brings me to the last division of my subject.
That God has dwelt and dwells with humanity is not
only the noblest illustration of its nature, but the per-
fect guarantee for its progress. We are entering on a
new era in the history of the race, and though we can-
not cast its horoscope, we at least may in some meas-
ure discern the pourse of its motion.

Here we are met at the very threshold of our argu-
ment by an afterbirth of the materialism of the last
century. A system which professes to re-construct
society on the simple observation of the laws of the
visible universe, and which is presented with arrogant
pretension under the name of the "Positive Philos-
ophy," scoffs at all questions of metaphysics and reU-
gious faith as insoluble and unworthy of human atten-
tion ; and affects to raise the banner of an aflSrming
belief in the very moment that it describes its main
characteristic as a refusal to recognise the infinite.
How those who own no source of knowledge but
the senses, can escape its hiuniUating yoke, I leave them
to discover. But it is as little entitled to be feared as
to be received. When it has put together all that it
can collect of the laws of the material universe, it can
advance no further toward the explanation of existence,
morals, or reason.

Philosophy which leaned on Heaven before.

Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more.

They who listen to the instructions of inward expe-

506 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

rience, may smile at the air of wisdom with which a
scheme that has no basis in the soul is presented to the
world as a new universal creed, the CathoUc Church
of the materialist. Its handful of acolytes wonder why
they remain so few. But Atheism never holds sway
over human thought except as a usurper ; no child of
its own succeeding. Error is a convertible term with
decay. Falsehood and death are synonyms. False-
hood can gain no permanent foothold in the immortid
soul ; for there can be no abiding or real faith, except
in that which is eternally and universally true. The
future will never produce a race of atheists, and their
casual appearance is but the evidence of some ill-under-
stood truth; some mistaken direction of the human
mind; some perverse or imperfect view of creation.
The atheist denies the life of life, which is the source
of liberty. Proclaiming himself a mere finite thing
of to-day, he rejects all connection with the infinite.
Pretending to search for truth, he abjures the spirit of
truth. Were it possible that the world of mankind
could become without God, that greatest death, the
death of the race would ensue. It is because man
cannot separate himself from his inward experience
and his yearning after the infinite, that he is capable
of progress ; that he can receive a religion whose his-
tory is the triumph of right over evil, whose symbol is
the resurrection.

The reciprocal relation between God and humanity

THE PROGRESS OF MANKIND. 507

constitutes the unity of the race. The more complete
recognition of that unity is the first great promise
which we receive from the future. Nations have,
indeed, had their separate creeds and institutions and
homes. The commonwealth of mankind, as a great
whole, was not to be constructed in one generation.
But the different peoples are to be considered as its
component parts, prepared, like so many springs and
wheels, one day to be put together.

Every thing tends to that consummation. Geo-
graphical research has penetrated nearly every part
of the world, revealed the paths of the ocean, and
chronicled even the varying courses of the winds;
while commerce circles the globe. At our Antipodes,
a new continent, lately tenanted only by the wildest of
men and the strangest products of nature, the kangaroo
and the quadruped with the bill of a bird, becomes an
outpost of civilization, one day to do service in regen-
erating the world.

In this great work our country holds the noblest*
rank. Rome subdued the regions round the Mediter-
ranean and the Euxine, both inland seas ; the German
Empire spread from the German Ocean to the Adriatic.
Our land extends far into the wilderness, and beyond
the wilderness ; and while on this side the great moun-
tains it gives the Western nations of Europe a theatre
for the renewal of their youth, on the transmontane
side, the hoary civilisation of the farthest antiquity

608 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

leans forward from Asia to receive the glad tidings
of the messenger of freedom. The islands of the
Pacific entreat om* protection, and at our suit the
Empire of Japan breaks down its wall of exclusion.

Our land is not more the recipient of the men of
all countries than of their ideas. Annihilate the past
of any one leading nation of the world, and our destiny-
would have been changed. Italy and Spain, in the per-
sons of Columbus and Isabella, joined together for
the great discovery that opened America to emigration
and commerce ; France contributed to its independence ;
the search for the origin of the language we speak car-
ries us to India ; our religion is from Palestine ; of the
hymns sung in our churches, some were first heard in
Italy, some in the deserts of Arabia, some on the banks
of the Euphrates ; our arts come from Greece ; our
jurisprudence from Rome ; our maritime code fi-om
Russia; England taught us the system of Represen-
tative Government ; the noble Repubhc of the United
Provinces bequeathed to us, in the world of thought,
the great idea of the toleration of all opinions ; in the
world of action, the prohfic principle of federal imion.
Our country stands, therefore, more than any other, as
the reaUsation of the unity of the race.

There is one institution so wide in its influence and
its connections, that it may already be said to repre-
sent the intelligence of universal man. I have reserved,
to this place a reference to the power, which has

THE PROGRESS OF MANKIND. 509

obtained its majestic development within the last fifty
years, till it now forms the controlling agency in reno-
vating civilisation ; surpassing in the extent and efiFect-
iveness of its teachings the lessons o^ the Academy and
of the pulpit. The invisible force of the magnetic ether
does not more certainly extend throughout the air and
the earth, than the press gives an impulse to the wave
of thought, so that it vibrates round the globe. The
diversity of nationalities and of governments continues ;
the press illustrates the unity of our intellectual world,
and constitutes itself the organ of collective humanity.

By the side of the press, the system of free schools^
though stiQ very imperfectly developed, has made such
progress since it first dawned in Geneva and in parishes
of Scotland, that we claim it of the future as a univer-
sal institution.

The moment wc enter upon an enlarged consider-
ation of existence, we may as well beHeve in beings
that are higher than ourselves, as in those that are
lower ; nor is it absurd to inquire whether there is a
plurality of worlds. Induction warrants the opinion,
that the planets and the stars are tenanted, or are to be
tenanted, by inhabitants endowed with reason ; for
though man is but a new comer upon earth, the lower
animals had appeared through unnumbered ages, like
a long twilight before the day. Some indeed tremu-
lously inquire, how it may be in those distant spheres
with regard to redemption ? But the scruple is un-

510 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

called for. Since the Mediator is from the beginning,
he exists for all inteUigent creatures not less than for
all time. It is very narrow and contradictory to con-
fine his oflSce to the planet on which we dwell. In
other worlds the facts of history may be, or rather, by
all the laws of induction, will be diflferent; but the
essential relations of the finite to the infinite are, and
must be invariable. It is not more certain that the
power of gravity extends through the visible universe,
than that throughout all time and all space, there is
but one mediation between God and created reason.

But leaving aside the question, how far rational life
extends, it is certain that on earth the capacity of
coming into connection with the infinite is the distin-
guishing mark of our kind, and proves it to be one.
Here, too, is our solace for the indisputable fact, that
humanity in its upward course passes through the
shadows of death, and over the reUcs of decay. Its
march is strown with the ruins of formative efforts,
that were never crowned with success. How often
does the just man suffer, and sometimes suffer most for
his brightest virtues ! How often do noblest sacrifices
to regenerate a nation seem to have been offered in
vain ! How often is the champion of liberty struck
down in the battle, and the symbol which he uplifted,
trampled underfoot ! But what is the life of an indi-
vidual to that of liis country ? of a state, or a nation,
at a given moment, to that of the race ? The just man

THE PR0GRBS8 OF MANKIND. 611

would cease to be just, if he were not willing to perish
for his kind. The scoria that fly from the iron at the
stroke of the artisan, show how busily he pUes his task ;
the clay which is rejected from the potter's wheel,
proves the progress of his work ; the chips of marble
that are thrown oflF by the chisel of the sculptor, leave
the miracle of beauty to grow under his hand. No-
thing is lost. I leave to others the questioning of
Infinite power, why the parts are distributed as they
are, and not otherwise. Humanity moves on, attended
by its glorious company of martyrs. It is our conso-
lation, that their sorrows and persecution and death
are encountered in the common cause, and not in vain.

The world is just beginning to take to heart this
principle of the unity of the race, and to discover how
fully and how beneficently it is fraught with inter- 1
national, poUtical, and social revolutions. Without
attempting to imfold what the greater wisdom of
coming generations can alone adequately conceive and
practically apply, we may observe, that the human
mind tends not only toward unity, but universality.

Infinite truth is never received without some ad-
mixture of error, and in the struggle which necessarily
ensues between the two, the error constantly undergoes
the process of elimination. Investigations are con-
tinued without a pause. The explanatory hypothesis,
perpetually renewed, receives perpetual correction.
Fresh observations detect the fallacies in the former

512 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

hypothesis; again, mind, acting a priori^ revises its
theory, of which it repeats and multiplies the tests.
Thus it proceeds from observation to hypothesis, and
from hypothesis to observation, progressively gaining
• clearer perceptions, and more perfectly mastering its

stores of accumulated knowledge by generalisations
which approximate nearer and nearer to absolute truth.

With each successive year, a larger number of
minds in each separate nationality inquires into man's
end and nature ; and as truth and the laws of Gk)d are
unchangeable, the more that engage in their study, the
greater will be the harvest. Nor is this all; the
nations are drawn to each other as members of one
family ; and their mutual acquisitions become a com-
mon property.

In this manner, truth, as discerned by the mind of
man, is constantly recovering its primal lustre, and is
"?.l| steadily making its way toward general acceptance.

\ \ Not that greater men will appear. Who can ever

embody the high creative imagination of the poet more
perfectly than Homer, or Dante, or Shakespeare ?
Who can discern "the ideas" of existences more

■^\

K.

I clearly than Plato, or be furnished with all the

instruments of thought and scientific attainment more
completely than Aristotle? To what future artist
will beauty be more intimately present, than to Phidias
or RAPHAEJi ? In universahty of mind, who will sur-
pass Bacon, or Leibnitz, or Kant? Indeed, the

THE PROGRESS OF MANKIND. 513

world may never again see their peers. There are not
wanting those who believe, that the more inteUigence is
diflPiised, the less will the inteUigent be distinguished
from one another ; that the colossal greatness of indi-
viduals impKes a general inferiority ; just as the soUtaiy
tree on the plain alone reaches the fullest development ;
or as the rock that stands by itself in the wilderness,
seems to cast the widest and most grateful shade ; in a
word, that the day of mediocrity attends the day of
general culture. But if wiser men do not arise, there
will certainly be more wisdom. The collective man
of the future will see further, and see more clearly,
than the collective man of to-day, and he will share his
superior power of vision and his attainments with every
one of his time. Thus it has come to pass, that the
child now at school could instruct Columbus respecting
the figure of the earth, or Newton respecting light, or
Franklin on electricity ; that the husbandman or the
mechanic of a Christian congregation solves questions
respecting God and man and man's destiny, which
perplexed the most gifted philosophers of ancient
Greece.

Finally, as a consequence of the tendency of the
race towards unity and universaUty, the organization
of society must more and more conform to the princi-
ple of FREEDOM. This will be the last triumph ; partly
because the science of government enters into the
sphere of personal interests, and meets resistance from
33

514 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

private selfishness ; and partly because society, before
it can be constituted aright, must turn its eye upon
itself, observe the laws of its own existence, and arrive
at the consciousness of its capacities and relations.

The system of poUtical economy may solve the
question of the commercial intercourse of nations^ by
demonstrating that they all are naturafly fellow-workers
and Mends ; but its abandonment of labor to the un-
mitigated effects of personal competition can never be
accepted as the rule for the dealings of man with man.
The love for others and for the race is as much a part
of human nature as the love of self; it is a common in-
stinct that man is responsible for man. The heart has
its oracles, not less than the reason, and this is one of
them. No practicable system of social equaUty has
been brought forward, or it should, and it would have
been adopted; it does not follow that none can be
devised, for there is no necessary opposition between
handcraft and intelligence ; and the masses themselves
will gain the knowledge of their rights, courage to
assert them, and self-respect to take nothing less. The
good time is coming, when liiunanity will recognise all
members of its family as alike entitled to its care;
when the heartless jargon of over-production in the
midst of want will end in a better science of distri-
bution; when man will dwell with man as with his
brother ; when political institutions will rest on the
basis of equality and freedom.

THE PROGRESS OF MANKIND. 515

But this result must flow from internal activity,
developed by universal culture ; it cannot be created by
the force of exterior philanthropy ; and still less by the
reckless violence of men whose desperate audacity
would employ terror as a means to ride on the whirl-
wind of civil war. Where a permanent reform appears
to have been instantaneously effected, it will be found
that the happy result was but the sudden plucking of
fruit which had slowly ripened. Successful revolutions
proceed like all other formative processes from inward
germs. The institutions of a people are always the
reflection of its heart and its intelligence ; and in pro-
portion as these are purified and enlightened, must its
public life manifest the dominion of universal reason.

The subtle and irresistible movement of mind,
silently but thoroughly correcting opinion and chang-
ing society, brings Uberty both to the soul and to the
world. All the despotisms on earth cannot stay its
coming. Every fallacy that man discards is an eman-
cipation ; every superstition that is thrown by, is a re-
deeming from captivity. The tendency towards uni-
versality implies necessarily a tendency towards free-
dom, alike of thought and in action. The faith of the
earliest ages was of all others the grossest. Every
century of the Christian Church is less comipt and less
in bondage than its predecessor. The sum of spiritual
knowledge as well as of liberty is greater, and less
mixed with error now, than ever before. The fiiture

516 OCCASIONAL ADDRESSES.

shall surpass the present. The senseless strife between
rationalism and supematuralism will come to an end ;
an age of skepticism will not again be called an age of
reason; and reason and religion will be found in
accord.

In the sphere of politics the Republican Govern-
ment has long been the aspiration of the wise. " The
human race," said Dante, summing up the experience
of the Middle Age, " is in the best condition, when it
has the greatest degree of Uberty; " and Kant, in like
manner, giving utterance to the last word of Protes-
tantism, declared the repubUcan government to be " the
only true civil constitution." Its permanent establish-
ment presupposes meUorating experience and appro-
priate culture ; but the circumstances under which it
becomes possible, prevail more and more. Our coun-
try is bound to allure the world to freedom by the
beauty of its example.

. The course of civilization flows on like a mighty
river through a boundless valley, calling to the streams
from every side to swell its current, which is always
growing wider, and deeper, and clearer, as it rolls
along. Let us trust ourselves upon its bosom ^vithout
fear ; nay, rather with confidence and joy. Shice the
progress of the race appears to be the great pmpose

{ of Providence, it becomes us all to venerate the future.
We must be ready to sacrifice ourselves for our suc-
cessors, as they in their turn must live for their posterity.

THE PROGRESS OF MANKIND. 617

We are not to be disheartened, that the intimate con-
nection of humanity renders it impossible for any one
portion of the civilised world to be much in advance of
all the rest ; nor are we to grieve because an unalter-
able condition of perfection can never be attained./
Every thing is in movement, and for the better, except
only the fixed eteraal law by which the necessity of
change is established ; or rather except only God, who
includes in himself all being, all truth, and all l6ve.
The subject of man's thoughts remains the same, but
the sum of his acquisitions evQr grows with time ; so
that his last system of philosophy is the best, for it in-
cludes every one that went before. The last poUtical
state of the world, likewise, is ever more excellent than
the old, for it presents in activity the entire inheritance
of truth, fructified by the living mind of a more en-
lightened generation.

You, BROTHERS, who are joined together for the
study of history, receive the lighted torch of civiUsation
from the departing half-century, and hand it along to
the next. In ftdfilling this glorious office, remember
that the principles of justice and sound philosophy are
but the inspirations of common sense, and belong of
right to all mankind. Carry them forth, therefore, to
the whole people ; for so only can society builditself up
on the imperishable groundwork of universal fireedom.

THE END.

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